Page 23 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
Hannah’s face crumpled slightly. “Lev, we should talk. There’s so much to explain, so much—”
“Not today.” I was already moving toward my own car, the camera button burning like a coal in my pocket. “I have work to do.”
Neither of them tried to stop me. Maybe they understood that the man standing in front of them wasn’t the boy they’d left behind. Maybe they could see that twenty-seven years of believing they were dead had carved something essential out of me, left me with edges sharp enough to cut anyone who got too close.
Including them. Including Anya. Including anyone foolish enough to think that love was stronger than the violence that had shaped me.
I drove home with my hands steady on the wheel and my heart locked behind ice, thinking about hidden cameras and Ukrainian tattoos and the kind of revenge that would make Saint Michael himself proud. The button in my pocket held secrets, and secrets were the only currency that mattered in a world where everything else could be taken away without warning.
My family was alive, but they were strangers. Anya thought I was a mistake, but she’d given me her innocence anyway. My father was dead, but he’d left me the tools to destroy his killers.
Everything was broken. Everything was wrong. And somewhere in the wreckage of what my life had become, I was going to find the strength to burn it all down and build something new from the ashes.
Starting with whoever had killed my father.
Chapter 6 – Anya
The leather seat of Drew’s car felt cold against my skin, even through the fabric of my dress. I sat rigidly in the passenger seat, my hands folded in my lap like a good little girl being driven to school, while fury simmered in my chest like acid.
I’d convinced Maxim that I wasn’t leaving, especially with my show coming so soon, so Drew had shown up at my door an hour ago with instructions from Lev—instructions that I was apparently supposed to follow without question.Mr. Antonov has assigned me to your security detail,he’d said in that calm, measured voice that reminded me uncomfortably of Lev’s own brand of controlled menace.I’ll be accompanying you wherever you need to go today.
What he meant was: Lev couldn’t be bothered to protect me himself, so he’d palmed me off on his colleague like I was some unwanted responsibility he needed to delegate. Like that night had meant so little that he couldn’t even stand to be in the same car as me.
The rational part of my brain understood that he was grieving, that losing his father would have knocked anyone off their axis. But the part of me that was still raw from this morning—still stinging from his cold dismissal and clinical analysis of my virginity—wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.
I’d gone to him. I’d put aside every principle I’d held about staying away from Bratva men, every promise I’d made to myself about not getting tangled up in their world of violence and shadows. I’d seen him hurting, and I’d offered him the only comfort I knew how to give, and he’d taken it like it was his due before reducing it to a mistake I should have warned him about.
“Miss Voronov?” Drew’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “We’re here.”
I looked up to see my mansion’s gates, the familiar sight of home doing nothing to ease the knot of tension in my chest. “Thank you,” I managed, reaching for the door handle.
“I’ll wait here while you collect whatever you need, then escort you to your office.”
The presumption in his tone made my teeth clench. “That won’t be necessary. I’m staying home today.”
Drew’s steel-gray eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I saw something implacable there. “Mr. Antonov’s instructions were quite specific. You’re not to be left alone.”
Mr. Antonov.Not Lev. Not evenmy bossoryour brother’s partner.Just the formal title that created distance between us, as if what had happened in his bed was so insignificant it didn’t even warrant using his first name.
I wanted to argue—to tell Drew exactly what he could do with Lev’s instructions—but I was tired. Bone-deep exhausted from a night of too little sleep and too many overwhelming sensations, followed by a morning of rejection that had left me feeling scraped raw.
So I simply nodded and walked through my front door, letting the familiar scents of vanilla candles and the lingering fragrance of yesterday’s roses wash over me like a balm. Home had always been my sanctuary, the one place where Bratva shadows couldn’t reach me. Where I could pretend that my world was normal and safe and didn’t revolve around men who solved problems with violence.
Sasha was waiting in my office, her ash-blond hair pulled back in a neat braid and a manila folder clutched in her hands. She looked up when I entered, her icy blue eyes immediately cataloging my appearance with the kind of keen observation that had made her invaluable as an assistant.
“Rough night?” she asked gently, and I realized I must look as wrecked as I felt.
“Something like that.” I settled behind my desk, grateful for the solid wood barrier between myself and the rest of the world. “What do you have for me?”
She opened the folder and spread several documents across my desk with efficient movements. “Show permits that need your signature by end of day, investor clearance forms that Legal wants reviewed, and the final model confirmations for next week’s show.”
I stared down at the papers, trying to summon the enthusiasm that usually came so easily when discussing my work. My clothing line was my baby, my proof that I could build something beautiful and successful without relying on my brother’s connections or the violence that seemed to define everyone else in my orbit. But today, even the sight of my own logo couldn’t penetrate the fog of exhaustion and hurt that seemed to have settled over me like a shroud.
“The Fresh Face casting is confirmed for the final walk,” Sasha continued, making notes in her precise handwriting. “And I’ve got backup options for the other slots, pending your approval.”
I nodded and reached for a pen, forcing myself to focus on the familiar routine of signatures and approvals. Work had always been my refuge, the one place where I had complete control over outcomes. Where my decisions mattered and my vision could become reality without anyone else’s interference.
But as I worked through the stack of papers, I found my mind drifting back to the way Lev had looked at me that morning. The careful blankness in his expression, as if he’d erased every trace of the man who’d whispered my name like a prayer against my skin just hours before.
