Page 12 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
I watch her on the security feed. I’ve been watching her since she stepped into the lobby at 7:58 a.m., two minutes early, as if to prove a point. She’s wearing a grey pencil skirt and a white silk blouse that whispers of the curves beneath it. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, a futile attempt to look severe. All it does is expose the elegant line of her neck.
She hasn't looked at my office door once. Not once. She’s been all business, typing with a furious rhythm, answering the few calls that come in with a crisp, professional voice.
She is pretending last night didn't happen.
She is pretending she didn't come apart on my tongue.
She is pretending she isn't mine.
A dark, humorless laugh rumbles in my chest.Malen'kaya. Little one. You can’t hide from me in my own building.
The strain between us is a physical thing, a third entity in the room. It’s so thick I could cut it with mykindjal. Elena is gone. The entire executive floor is empty, save for us. The silence of the massive space is broken only by the click of her keyboard and the howling of the wind outside. A blizzard has descended on the city, a white wall of fury that matches my own.
I let her stew for another hour. I let her pretend. I review spreadsheets I’ve already memorized, take a call from Dimitri in St. Petersburg that I could have ignored. I’m giving her space, a courtesy I’ve never extended to another living soul.
It’s a lie. I’m not giving her space. I’m drawing the string taut.
At 1:00 p.m., I press the intercom. Her sharp, professional voice answers on the first ring. "Yes, Mr. Ismailov?"
Mr. Ismailov. We’re back to that. The formality is a slap, a challenge. Good.
"My office, Miss Brooks. Now."
I don't wait for a reply. I cut the connection and stand, moving to the window. The snow is coming down so hard, the worldbeyond the glass is just a white, swirling void. It’s beautiful, in a brutal way.
I hear the door open, the soft click of the latch. I don't turn. I feel her presence, her heat, the nervous energy rolling off her. She smells like peaches and fear.
"Sir?"
"Close the door."
A beat of hesitation. Then the click. We are sealed in.
"The forecasts were wrong," I say, my voice calm, conversational. I’m still watching the storm. "They’re calling it a 'bomb cyclone.' The city is shutting down. The mayor is closing the bridges and tunnels by three."
"Oh." Her voice is small. "I... I should check the train schedule."
"There is no schedule, Talia." I turn to face her.
She flinches at the use of her name. Her eyes are wide, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her, her knuckles are white. That damn blouse is almost translucent under the office lights, and I can see the faint outline of her bra. She’s trembling.
"You're nervous," I state.
"I'm cold," she lies.
"No. You're nervous. You're wondering why I haven't mentioned last night. You're wondering if I'm going to fire you for saying no." I take a step toward her. "Or if I'm going to punish you for it."
Her chin jerks up, and there it is—the flash of defiance that drives me insane. "Are you?"
I'm in front of her now, close enough to feel the shiver that runs through her. I don't touch her. Not yet. "Which one,malen'kaya? Firing you? Or punishing you?"
"You're a bastard," she whispers, the words full of fear and an anger that excites me.
"Da." I nod. "I am. But last night... you were wondering. You went home and you waited. You were angry."
Her brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"
"You were angry I didn't call."
