Page 43 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

“Because he would like to see you.”

I bite back a groan. She sounds like her boss.

Question:Why?

Answer:Because I said so.

I close my laptop and follow her out of the room.

Her long strides have her half a hallway in front of me, and she makes no effort to slow down or wait for me. So I hustle after her, half-jogging to keep up.

“Have you worked for Niko—Mr. Zhukova for very long?” I ask.

She lifts her chin and looks back over her shoulder at me. “Only a few months. I’m a new hire. But Mr. Zhukova offered me the job himself.”

Yeah, that makes sense. The woman is a bombshell. And Nikolai said his attention span is short. I’d imagine the interview process was… unorthodox.

But as soon as that thought crosses my mind—and as soon as the so-obvious-I-should’ve-seen-it-coming heat flashes between my thighs—I repress it.

It doesn’t matter. None of this does.

“High turnover rate?” I ask.

“Mr. Zhukova doesn’t stand for incompetence.”

Wow. Didn’t realize Nikolai had his own spin team working at the front desk. I want to ask if all the previous receptionists were also former or future models, but I think I already know the answer.

My jaw aches. I realize I’m clenching my teeth. As the receptionist knocks on Nikolai’s door, I force myself to take a deep breath.

Relax. A few more days and this will be over.

For two glorious seconds, that thought reassures me. But when the door opens, the tension is back with a vengeance.

“Hey,” the receptionist purrs through the crack in the door, her voice infinite degrees warmer than it ever was with me. “I got her for you.”

She makes it sound like I’m a bone she was sent to fetch.

“You can let her in, Bridget,” Nikolai says. He doesn't match her warmth, but then again, of course he doesn't. He doesn't need to.

She will fawn all over him, and all he has to do is exist. He’ll smile, fuck her until she's broken the way I am, dependent on him for release… then send her back out into the wild.

Bridget steps back, her expression smug. “Let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Zhukova.”

Like a quickie before lunch, seems to be right on the tip of her tongue.

I hurry past the receptionist and shut the door on her stupid, perfect face.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask, turning to face him without quite meeting his eyes. Reason being that, if I look into his eyes, I’ll recall what he said to me last night while pressed against the conference room table. I’ll lose what little bit of dignity I’ve managed to scrape up.

“I do want to see you,” he says. “But I also want to talk to you.”

My eyes snap up to his before I can stop myself. “How cute," I say sarcastically.

“Not cute. Just honest. Same as I was last night.”

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I’m sure he can hear it. “I have a lot to do today. What do you want from me?”

He stands up, devastating in tailored navy blue suit pants and a pale blue button down. The material hugs his biceps and the flat plane of his abs. I want to scrape my teeth over his muscles and eat him like a buffet.

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