Page 60 of Bratva's Intern

“You more than made up for it last night.”

“I was just doing my job.”

“Only work assigned to you by me is your job, Wren. If anyone else asks you to do something, you come to me.”

He took a long gulp of his orange juice. The way his throat moved was so fucking sexy. Was it supposed to be? I wanted to lick stripes up that exposed skin.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. People will think I’m being snooty if I run to you for everything.”

I want you to run to me for everything.

“Go to dinner with me tomorrow night.”

The words slipped out before I could think better of them.

He choked violently on a grape. His eyes bulged, panic flaring in them. I crossed the room and whacked him hard between the shoulder blades. He coughed, and the grape flew out onto the carpet.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Dinner?” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Like…a datedinner?”

“No.” After his reaction, I had no choice but to default to a lie. “Business dinner. Want to see how you would do in a five-star dining setting. Test your etiquette before I take you on a real business dinner.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ve never been to a five-star restaurant, so that’ll be neat.”

I turned away, heart hammering like I’d just pulled a trigger.

He said yes. To a date. He just didn’t realize it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MAXIM

Blood splattered across the polished leather of my John Lobb oxfords, deep crimson against the sleek obsidian finish. The shoes were handcrafted, bespoke, worth more than the life sniveling at my feet.

I had spent an hour deliberating over my outfit, ensuring perfection for tonight’s dinner with Wren. Now, gore marred the supple leather, sinking into the delicate stitching. I curled my upper lip in disgust.

“I’m sorry,” the man whimpered, voice raw with terror. He peered up at me from his one good eye, his face swollen, jawbone broken from the force of Sergei’s hand.

Both legs were broken, lifeless twigs no longer supporting a body that was just as crumpled. No pity formed in my stomach. I tended not to have any for men who tried to kill me, and this one had failed epically but had hurt Wren in the process.

Whether or not I got the truth out of him, he could not live. He probably sensed that, which was the reason he wasbeing difficult. Ah, well, it mattered not to me if he carried his secrets to his grave.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, irritation riding hot in my gut. I should be getting into my car and picking up Wren. Instead, I was here, in the cold, windowless basement beneath one of our safe houses, dealing with this filth.

“Clean it off,” I ordered.

He snapped his head up, confusion momentarily overshadowing his fear. “Wh-what?”

“With your tongue.”

He hesitated. My stare bore into him, and in an instant, the fight drained from his body. Trembling hands braced against the damp concrete, and he lowered his face to my shoe. The first drag of his tongue against the blood-streaked leather made my stomach churn not from sympathy but from sheer annoyance at how pathetic he was.

He gagged. The stench of his fear and desperation thickened the air, but I felt nothing. No satisfaction. No amusement. Only annoyance at him for wasting my time.

I had been looking forward to this evening. Now it was tainted, just like my fucking shoes.

I lifted my foot and drove it into his face. The wet crunch of cartilage shattering echoed in the empty room, followed by his howl of agony as he crumpled to the floor, hands clutching his nose.

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