Page 68 of Betrothed
“You think Mikhail has every intention of finishing the job.”
“Russians never let anything go. When they make a decision on something or someone they want, that becomes a lifelong mission. Mikhail is Kazimir’s weakness and in our business, akin to a death warrant.”
“What’s your weakness?” She dragged the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, her lovely eyes piercing mine. With the slight tremble of her body, she was uncertain but eager for the truth.
“You.”
Finally, she blinked and looked away. “That means this Ghost could win.”
“It’s possible, but I assure you I won’t allow that to happen.”
“Are you that good?”
“I’m that good.”
My words brought a slight change in her demeanor, her tongue darting out across the center of her bottom lip for a second time. The connection and the emotions were far too unsettling between us. The simple action was also enticing, enough so that I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. At this rate, if not careful, I’d do something unthinkable. Touching her again was not only going to lead to muddy water, it would create a decision that couldn’t easily be reversed, which wasn’t in our best interest.
But I was no longer certain I had that level of control when I was with her.
Now that my arrival had been announced with firecrackers, the game would change directions.
I doubted it would take long for the Ghost to realize another player had entered the waiting room, eager to play the game.
As the minutes dragged on, I became even more concerned that having her with me could spell the kind of danger I couldn’t control. Not good all the way around.
Now she was standing in front of the oven, her eyes barely open as she offered the digital screen a stern glare. She pressed a couple of buttons before groaning. After she pushed a few others, I sensed the aggravation building. “Damn it. This thing doesn’t work and bread is needed. Bread is absolutely needed.”
I dumped everything into a pot including the crushed tomatoes, far too amused from her irritation. As I stirred, she continued fighting, pressing one button after another. When I noticed she was ready to punch the oven, I intervened, grasping her fisted hand before she did something crazy.
“Why don’t you allow me.” I pulled her hand away then pressed the buttons. “What temperature?”
“Oh! Three seventy-five. I tried everything.” She jerked her arm free, even doing a little dance from anger. She moved away, punching the air a few times. Every silly action allowed me to enjoy moments that before might have seemed trivial.
Or so very normal.
Maybe knowing my best friend had almost lost everything that mattered to him would forever weigh heavily on my mind.
Unable to help myself, I started to laugh.
Her reaction I suspected was one she’d provide to anyone else she knew wasn’t seriously attempting an act of humiliation.
She punched me playfully.
In the gut.
In the chest.
Then in the shoulder.
And as soon as she did, my body reacted, pain tearing through my shoulder, a nasty guttural sound rising from my throat.
“Oh, shit. I am so sorry.” She reacted instantly, turning off the stove and moving the pan of sauce.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re coming with me and don’t argue. I might be your prisoner but I’m also your doctor.”
“Oh, yeah? Who made you my physician?”
