Page 10 of Sin Wager
I'm loading feed buckets onto a cart when Sonya appears in the doorway. She moves with her usual predatory grace, scanning the room until her gaze settles on Misha. Her expression doesn't change, but I feel the temperature drop several degrees. I look past him and he follows my line of sight.
"Excuse me for a moment," I tell him, and I leave him by the cart to walk up to her. I feel his eyes burning on me as I greet her with a plastic smile and she leads me around the corner where he can't see us.
"Vera," she says, extending a folded piece of paper. "Today's requirements."
I take her orders and slip them into my pocket, but this time, it feels wrong. Too dirty. The difference between Sonya and Misha is striking. She has an inky black heart, while his soul is wrapped in velvet and layered in depth. I almost feel like I'm staining him simply by knowing him and her at the same time.
"Same timeline as yesterday," Sonya continues. "The opportunities are time-sensitive."
"Understood."
"And your friend… Don’t tell him." She lifts one eyebrow, and I glance over my shoulder where I hear movement. When I look back, she's walking away.
She leaves with her heels clicking against concrete as she disappears back into the stable's maze of corridors. But her message was clear—I belong to her operation, not to whatever other interests might complicate my priorities.
When I return, Misha straightens from examining a horse's bridle, his movements unhurried despite the tension crackling in Sonya's wake. "Friend of yours?"
"Business associate. She helps coordinate some of my side work."
The lie sounds weak even to me, but I can't explain Sonya's role without revealing truths that would incriminate me and stop the flow of precious money I need for Elvin's treatment.
"People will see interactions and make assumptions," Misha says casually, as if discussing weather patterns. "They might think you're tied to the wrong crew, running errands for people who don't have your best interests at heart."
The warning hits like ice water in my veins. If Misha can read the dynamics of my relationship with Sonya after one brief encounter, how long before others reach similar conclusions? How long before the new bookie everyone is whispering about starts asking questions I can't answer?
"I can handle my own business relationships."
"I'm sure you can. It's just… There was a girl, couple years back, at Hippodrome Moscow. Similar situation—young woman, sick family member, good heart but poor judgment about whom to trust. Nobody stepped in when things went wrong."
He lets the statement taint the air between us, and I know what he's saying without his being explicitly threatening. Then he changes the subject so smoothly that I almost miss the transition.
"The bridle work here is excellent. Someone takes real pride in maintaining this equipment."
My hands shake slightly as I continue loading feed buckets, Misha's warning echoing in my mind. A girl getting in trouble. Nobody stepping in. The casual way he delivered the information suggests it's meant as education rather than threat, but the effect is the same—sudden awareness of vulnerabilitiesI've tried to ignore in combination with a pounding heart and a thready pulse.
I push the cart toward the first row of stalls, and Misha follows. Other stable hands begin arriving for the morning shift, greeting me with the casual familiarity of coworkers while nodding politely to the well-dressed stranger who obviously belongs to the owner class.
"I should let you finish your work," Misha says as we reach Koschei's stall. But he doesn't leave immediately. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne and feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"I enjoyed last night more than I've enjoyed anything in months," he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes my skin prickle with awareness. "You're special, Vera. Different from other women I've met."
The compliment makes my cheeks burn. He's close enough to touch, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The position makes me feel small and protected rather than diminished.
"I don't usually spend time with younger women," he continues, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. "They're easily distracted, focused on things that don't matter. But you understand what's important. You know how to prioritize the people you love."
The praise washes over me in liquid warmth, validation I didn't realize I desperately needed. He sees my sacrifices, understands my choices, values the qualities that others take for granted or ignore entirely.
"I want to take care of you," he murmurs, his hand coming to rest lightly against my lower back. The contact is brief but electric, sending heat racing through nerve endings I'd forgotten existed. "You've been carrying everything alone for too long."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can. But you shouldn't have to."
His fingers trace along my spine through my work jacket, the touch so gentle it might be accidental if not for the intensity in his eyes. I'm drowning in sensations—his proximity, his scent, the implicit promise in his words and tone.
"I know someone," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Someone who helps families deal with medical expenses. Legitimate assistance, not charity. People who understand that sometimes, good families face impossible circumstances through no fault of their own."
The offer seems too perfect to be real, too tempting to refuse without consideration. Help with Elvin's treatments that doesn't require compromising my soul or risking my freedom? The possibility makes my chest tight with desperate hope.
