Page 28 of Twisted Pact

I ignore it and keep stroking. I’m close; I just need another minute to?—

The phone rings again, and I slap the tile with an open hand.

“Goddammit.”

I shut off the water and grab my phone with my free hand. Dmitri’s name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him. My brother has the worst timing.

“What?” I answer, not bothering to hide my irritation.

“Good morning to you, too. Boris just sent an update on the Andreev situation.”

I reach for a towel. “And?”

“Three more cameras were discovered on the property. All in areas you checked, which means they were installed after our last sweep.”

The information cuts through my arousal faster than the cold shower did.

Duty wins. It always does.

I dry off quickly while Dmitri continues to brief me.

“How recently do you think they were installed?” I ask.

“Within the past forty-eight hours, based on the timestamps on the recordings. It’s too obvious. Whoever’s watching isn’t hiding anymore; they want the family to know.”

I pull on jeans and a T-shirt while I work through what he’s telling me. “Recommendations?”

“Boris thinks you should move her again. The safe house is too close to his place of residence, and it was supposed to be temporary anyway. Get her somewhere more secure until we identify who’s behind this.”

“The countryside estate?”

“That’s what I’d suggest. It’s more defensible and isolated. Your security team can control access without worrying about neighbors or having to discern a suspicious vehicle from random traffic.”

I run a hand through my wet hair and consider the logistics. Moving Mila again will only prove her point that I’m controlling every aspect of her life, but keeping her here when someone’s escalating surveillance is foolish.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” I tell him.

“Good. Keep me updated.”

He hangs up, and I already know how Mila will react when I tell her we’re moving. Yesterday’s fight is still fresh. She already thinks I’m using protection as an excuse to keep her prisoner.

This will only confirm her worst assumptions about my motives.

I smell her before I see her. Coffee and something sweet that doesn’t belong here.

I find her in the kitchen wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in the messy ponytail she favors lately. No makeup, just natural beauty that makes my recently ignored arousal stir all over again.

Fuck, my balls are going to be killing me in a few hours.

She’s making coffee and doesn’t acknowledge me when I enter. Just continues to measure grounds.

“Morning,” I try.

“Is it?” She doesn’t look up.

“You’re still angry.”

“What gave it away? The fact that I won’t look at you or the fact that I’m imagining pouring this scalding coffee over your head?”