Page 105 of Blood Code

“What a good fiancé you are,” I teased. “Or do you need my skill set?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Both.”

“Ah, always pragmatic. Utilitarian, even.”

He shrugged. “I run the Bratva. If I weren’t utilitarian, I wouldn’t be good at my job.”

“Sure.” The judgment in my voice was unmistakable, and he definitely caught it.

He raised one eyebrow, and I had to remind myself that I hated him and was furious with him, but he thought I was just a hired hand who happened to be sick. Someone he might fuck one day.

A sharp pain ripped through my head, and my hand shot to my forehead as I groaned.

God, this always fucking sucked.

It was why I planned my attacks on the Lethe months, sometimes years, in advance. To minimize these side effects.

Minimize my exposure to my weaknesses.

But I’d been forced to remain invisible for hours, waiting for the Bratva to leave the compound. I even tried walking as far as I could manage… which turned out to be just outside, against the wall.

But, hey, a girl tried.

It had been horribly draining.

Staying invisible wouldn’t have been so terrible if I hadn’t already fought and switched between forms so many times.

The rule was simple. One form alone? Fine. Switching between them? Fucked.

I lowered my hand and caught him staring. He was examining me intently.

Studying me like a lab rat he was about to send through a maze.

Did he know?

A pained breath escaped me. If he did, he clearly wasn’t going to say anything about it now.

He’d continue to study me—run his little experiments. Test me at every turn.

And I would run mine, too. I just needed to be faster and better than him.

“What is it you need from me?” I asked, my voice breaking from the strain.

“No, take your time to recover,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I can show you what I need done after the charity gala next week.”

Fuck, was that already so soon?

A massive event held at his club, where the who’s who of New York society and Hollywood would smooze through speeches and pretend to be good people by donating a pittance of their estates to charity.

And of course, I was now the fiancée of one of New York City’s most sought-after billionaires. Who cared if he was the head of the mafia?

The rich certainly didn’t.

“Alright,” I breathed, my eyelids growing heavy.

I struggled to keep them open, trying to focus on what Severin was saying, but another wave of exhaustion dragged me under.

My muscles went slack, and darkness reached into my mind, sinking its claws into my consciousness and ripping it away.