Page 52 of Brutal Union
I shrug, reaching for the thick envelope of cash on the table beside me. “I don’t trust anyone else, and if anyone killed you, they would have to answer to me.”
She eyes the envelope, unimpressed. “This again?”
I peel it open, letting her see the crisp stack of American hundreds nestled inside. “Stay. In the States. You know I don’t like strange hands near my body.”
Rebecca clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“But persuasive.” I grin.
“You think being rich means people will stay where you tell them. Listen to what you say?” She snorts, stuffing the envelopeinto her oversized canvas tote anyway. “Youarea paranoid queen, you know that?”
“It’s not paranoia,” I reply, stretching carefully so I don’t reopen anything. “It’s survival. There’s a difference.”
She smirks. “Sure,Malen'kaya. Keep telling yourself that.”
I narrow my eyes. “You call me little one like I don’t have six confirmed kills with a hairpin.”
“Ideliveredthe X-ray that confirmed them,” Rebecca shoots back with a wink. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still call you my little girl when you flinch at alcohol on an open wound.”
I let out a sharp laugh—genuine, for once.
Before she was a respected trauma nurse, she was a feared killer for the Bratva. The kind of woman who could set a man’s bones or break his neck with the same hands. There’s an old story—the kind whispered with vodka on breath and fear behind eyes—about how she once went toe to toe with a Bratva kingpin. Fought him in a back alley under moonlight and neon, walked away with his left testicle as a reward.
Literal badass.
I’ll deny it if she ever asks, but she’s my number one inspiration in life.
She finishes stitching the last edge of the healing wound and strips off her gloves with surgical grace.
“I will stay,” she nods, tossing the gloves into the biohazard bin. “But only because you’re not allowed to die on me.”
“I won’t,” I promise, lips twisting into a smirk. “Not until I kill Boris at least.”
“Nah,” a voice drawls from the doorway, a wicked smirk curving his lips. “You gotta live until you killme, at least.”
I don’t flinch. Just slowly turn my head to face him.
Sho is leaning against the doorframe like he owns the air around him. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink curled around his forearms like serpents, his eyes glinting in a look of amusement.
“How did you get in here?” I murmur, brushing hair back from my face.
“Your back window is open,” he shrugs, already walking toward me. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “You should really lock your windows and get a better security system.”
“I am the security system,” I groan, moving to the edge of the table.
Rebecca clears her throat, not even looking at him. “She needs to rest. Not fight.”
“I’ll have my guy come and install a full security system—here and at the safe house,” Sho smirks, brushing a featherlight kiss against my temple.
I let out a shaky exhale. My stomach flutters like I am a fucking teenager. Normally, I’d snark. Bite back with something vicious about personal space or assumed control. But I don’t. Because Sho kissing my temple feels so normal. So sweet. So domestic. I don’t know how to feel.
“Sho, I’mfine,” I groan, jerking my head just enough to break the contact, like the weight of tenderness feels uncomfortable in my hands.
“She isnotfine,” Rebecca calls from the hall, slinging her tote over her shoulder.
“Whose side are you on?” I snap, shooting daggers at her with my eyes.
“The one that keeps you alive,” she replies smoothly, heels tapping a steady rhythm across the floor.
