Page 22 of Bratva's Intern

Wren

Girl, gross. This isn’t a romcom. And who wants to kiss him?

But I did save his life.

Jess

Whaaaat?

Wren

Some guy tried to stab him, and I saw it. Anyway, I may be coming home with stitches. Will you take pity on me and make me some soup?

My phone rang just as someone rapped on the window. Startled, I fumbled the device, and it fell to the floor. One of Mr. Morozov’s bodyguards, Dezi, was crouched at the window. A deep slash ran from the corner of his left brow down to the curve of his cheek, like someone had once tried to carve his eye out and missed by inches. It didn’t make him ugly. Just hard. Weathered. Like a man who knew exactly how brutal the world could be but didn’t mind throwing some punches of his own.

I hit the button to roll down the window. “Can I help you?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes scanning the inside of the car. “The police are here and would like to talk to you about what happened. Mr. Morozov insists that you stay.”

I groaned. Now I had to talk to the police? “I didn’t see much.”

He opened the car door. “Mr. Holloway, please step out of the car.”

With a sigh, I got out of the car. Bradley hurried toward us, his expression unreadable, though his jaw seemed to tick.

“You didn’t find my stuff?” I asked.

“Mr. Morozov would not allow me to take your belongings, unfortunately. They want to speak to you about what happened.”

“But I really don’t know anything.”

The bodyguard placed a hand on my shoulder. “This way, please.”

I glanced over my shoulder helplessly at Bradley, but from the way he avoided my gaze, I knew I was on my own.

Welp, this was the last time I stepped between anyone and a knife.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MAXIM

Istood outside the conference room, arms crossed, watching through the glass as the two police officers questioned Wren.

The lighting in the room was soft, the modern furnishings sleek, but the air inside was heavy with tension. Wren sat at the long conference table, his fingers twitching slightly against the polished surface. His shoulders were squared, his chin lifted just enough to feign composure, but I saw past the act. He was nervous.

His gaze flicked between the two men questioning him, wide but alert. His knee bounced beneath the table—a tell. He caught himself and stilled it, but too late. I’d already noticed.

I noticed everything.

The way he swallowed hard before answering a question. The way he flexed his hands as if resisting the urge to fidget. The way he exhaled through his nose.

Wren had no poker face.

If I were the one sitting in that chair, no one could tell if I was nervous, irritated, or completely indifferent. But Wren—he was an open book. And that book was scrawled with tension, uncertainty, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

The fact that he was even sitting there, in this position, washisfault.

Because he’s reckless.

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