Page 39 of Tamed Enemy
“With your permission, sir,” Nilsson says, cutting him off again. Cole looks dumbfounded. “Anna and I will move into the unoccupied maid’s room off the kitchen. We can pack our bags and be settled within the hour. Sir.”
Cole opens his mouth. Closes it. “Impossible,” he finally says.
Privacy. That’s the one thing Cole Wolf demands more than absolute, perfect control. That’s why this house has twenty-foot-high fences. That’s why the network has a military-grade firewall. Cole Wolf doesn’t play well with others.
But this isn’t a game. This is a life-or-death battle with the bratva. And keeping Nilsson and Anna safe isn’t enough.
“Granny and Breagha should move too,” I say. “Along with Mrs. Watson.”
“I’m not opening a fucking hotel,” Cole says sourly.
Nilsson has the good sense to stay silent.
“No,” I say. “You’re opening your home.Ourhome. Ask Jacobson—he’ll tell you it’s easier to protect one property than two.”
“Kate…”
There’s an entire argument buried in how he says my name. With Nilsson and Anna off the kitchen and my relatives upstairs, we’re forfeiting any chance of maintaining a private life. The dungeon may be sound-proofed, but neither of us can maintain any illusion about playing down there while my grandmother sorts her knitting in one of the guest rooms.
And it’s not just the dungeon. It’s the dining room, where Cole once cuffed me to his chair. It’s the foyer, where he pressed me up against the door. It’s his office, where he leashed me to the wall.
We’ve been living in a dream world, Cole and me. This house has been an enchanted forest, where we’ve been able to stray from every path without fear of blame or penalty.
“You said it yourself,” I tell him. “Tarasov’s plotting to use a bigger stick. We need to take that stick away. Just for a couple of weeks.”
A couple of weeks.
I don’t say what will happen at the end of the month. Cole has promised to deliver RedBear. Tarasov has promised to make me his bride.
But if we don’t do this—if we don’t move everyone into the house—we might not get to the end of the month.
Cole nods before he gestures to Nilsson. “Go ahead. Work with Jacobson and make it happen.”
Nilsson’s barely out the door when Cole’s mobile buzzes four times, a flurry of messages coming in at once. Annoyed, he starts to toss the device onto his bare desk. When he glances at the screen, though, his lips pull down in a frown.
I cross to his side as he taps the glass, and I crane my neck to make out the words.
Nikolai Tarasov
Now you know I make no idle threats
RedBear
One week
Or else
A video plays beneath the words. It takes me a moment to recognize the scene—the Andersons’ suburban home. Mrs. A is carrying in groceries from the car. She hands two bags to Mr. A on the front porch and turns back to retrieve another from her Honda’s trunk.
A time-stamp runs in the corner, counting off tenths of seconds. The display shows today’s date. We’re watching a live transmission.
We’re watching Nikolai Tarasov’s bigger stick.
15
COLE
Jacobson insists it isn’t safe for me to drive to the Andersons. He’s not just considering Nikolai Tarasov’s threat. He’s considering the reporters, too.
