Page 40 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

“While you’re working here, you and everything you own belongs to me.”

I hold the page up to the light. Her pencil lines are light, feathery gray against the lined page, but the vision is clear.

It's a tall, narrow house with a deep, shaded porch. The pitch of the roof is steep and there's a stained-glass rose window on the gable. Certain elements of the house are more detailed than others. For instance, the porch has intricately-crafted railings, the pencil marks darker in those areas. But the details around the roof are barely visible. Still in their first pass of design.

I look up at her. "You did this?"

She chews on her lower lip and nods. "It’s just something I do when I get bored."

“If you can draw like this, why are you working for Roger?”

She seems surprised by the tucked-away compliment. To her credit, I don’t give them out often. She pushes her hair away from her face and then lunges for the notebook once again.

I hold it out of her reach. “Are there nude drawings in here or something?”

“I work for Roger because some of us need guaranteed paths to financial stability,” she snaps. “I didn’t have the money to waste on an architecture degree.”

Belle would probably love to know the similarities in our backgrounds. Maybe my “rags to riches” story, as Giorgos called it, really could be an inspiration to her.

But I’m not here to be anyone’s fucking inspiration. And I don’t need her to relate to me.

I need her to listen.

"Now, give it back to me, asshole,” she spits again.

I fan through the pages, catching glimpses of other houses and buildings she’s drawn. “Maybe there’s a distinguished rendering of a particular man in a particular airplane bathroom in here you want to hide?”

“Or a composite sketch I can show the police.”

I regard her over the sketchbook. “You already tried the law enforcement route. It didn’t pan out.”

“Because I had no proof.” She slaps her hand on her laptop. “Now, I have plenty. Lots of discrepancies here.”

The threat, however toothless, irks me. My life is filled with threats, but they’re usually flung by men who have a leg to stand on.

Belle has nothing.

“If you never want to see your sister again, then sure, that sounds like a great plan.”

She seems to notice the shift in my demeanor. Her brow furrows, hazel eyes assessing me. “You’re not a murderer.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. I know an airplane bathroom that can attest to your astounding lack of judgment.”

She clenches her jaw and swipes out again for the notebook. This time, I let her grab it and yank it towards her, but I move with it, refusing to fully let go.

In an instant, I’m in her space. She tries to jerk back, but I lean down.

“You have no clue who I am or what I’m capable of.” I rake my gaze over her heart-shaped face. “It’s hard to know what a person is capable of. I never would have guessed you’d fuck your boss to keep your job.”

“You weren’t my boss,” she grits out.

I shake my head. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

It takes a second for understanding to settle over her, but when it does, she jumps to her feet. “Are you serious? I never fucked Roger!”

I let go of the journal. It thumps on the table. “You’re pretty desperate to keep your job. And it’s obvious you have an… insatiable sexual appetite.”

I don’t really think she slept with her boss—I’m just trying to rev her up because I like how the little lamb looks when she’s flustered—but even the thought twists something inside of me. A man as foul as him should never get to touch something as flawless as her.

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