Chapter 7

"Maybe we should move the pool table," I say, standing at the door to the game room. This is the room we've converted into our hacking hub.

Mikhail leans against the table, his hair wild, a smirk on his face as he looks at me. We're both still in our funeral clothes, making the sticky heat between my legs and the passion still pulsing through me feel even more out of place. I didn't expect him to leap on me like that.

I wanted to keep going but knew I'd have to tell him how inexperienced I am. There's nothing to be ashamed of, but if he wants a quickie, he's come to the wrong girl, and what I said is true. This could all blow up in our faces.

"Think you got it in you to move this?" he chuckles, tapping the pool table.

"I think I can help," I say, propping one door open with a stack of board games. Looking around, I grab some more games from another shelf and prop the other door open.

Mikhail smirks. There's something in his expression that makes me feel so special somehow. It's like he's proud of me. "Relax, code queen. I'll have Yuri assemble some of the staff."

"No," I tell him, taking a step forward. "We can do this. We don't need help all the time."

"Nothing wrong with a little help," he replies.

"Maybe I'm tired of it. Maybe I want to do something on my own."

Mikhail shrugs, then moves away from the table. "Okay, my firewall fairy. Be my guest."

I laugh. "Okay, byte boss, maybe I will!"

Guilt tries to twist through me as we banter. I know my father. He won't physically hurt Anatoly unless he thinks, in his warped mind, he has to. Dad has always preferred psychological torment.

Walking over to the table, I bend my knees and grip the edge, preparing to pull it.

"Nah, ah," Mikhail says, walking up behind me. "We have to lift, not drag. Or we'll ruin the floor. Are you sure you don't need help?"

I look at him over my shoulder, hoping he can read how game I am. Kneeling down, I grab the pool table and start to lift.

"Whoa, easy." He grabs my hips and pulls me away from it. "Seriously, I'm not letting you do this on your own. I'm going to get some help."

When he leaves, I try to lift it. Yeah, there's no chance that's happening in a million years. My lower back, legs, and arms ache just trying. Soon, Mikhail returns with three men. I decide to make myself useful by going to my bedroom and grabbing my laptop. When I return, Mikhail is clearing away one of the desks.

"We'll move my external storage, servers, and processors in here," he tells me. "That'll give us all the juice we need. You can work here." He nods to the desk. "I'll work over there." He nods to the desk in the opposite corner.

We're alone again now, but I still have to keep my voice low, just in case. "Why do I feel like you're purposefully seating us as far away from each other as possible?"

"Busted," he laughs, walking over to me. We've both been smiling like loons since we decided to do this. "Let's face it, Mila. It's the smart decision."

I know exactly what he means. If we worked at side-by-side desks, there's no way we could stop ourselves from acting on the desire pumping through us. He'd slip his hand under the desk, up my leg, and …

"Maybe you're right," I murmur.

"Where did your mind just go, hmm, pixel princess?"

"You're too good at these nicknames … binary, uh, beau?"

"I've never been called beau before."

"Do you like it?"

He's about to reply when he suddenly takes a step back. It stings me much more than it should. He looks over my shoulder at someone.

It's Ania, wearing her skin-tight ballet stuff, making her look even thinner, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead. "What's going on in here?" she asks.

"We're turning the game room into our computer command center," Mikhail says.

"Oh, wow. Can I help?"

He smiles at his little sister. "Sure, Ania. You can carry some servers. Be careful, okay?"

"Don't worry, I won't drop them," Ania huffs. "Have I got time for a quick shower?"

"Sure, there's lots to carry and set up."

"Okay, great."

When she leaves the room, Mikhail looks at me with narrowed eyes. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," I murmur. "Shall we get started?"

He walks over to me, standing close. Just him being mere inches from me is enough for the lust to reactivate. It's like an on/off switch inside me; he switches it on anytime he gets close. "Are you lying to me, code … crusader?"

I laugh, touching his chest, loving how powerfully his heart beats against my hand. I love the feeling of making him excited and wild and savage, of being his sole focus of attention. It makes forgetting everything so much easier. "I think these nicknames are getting out of hand."

"Was I going crazy, then?" he asks. "The way you were looking at me … I thought you had something to say."

"I guess I noticed some tension between you and Ania."

He sucks in a sharp breath through tight-clenched teeth, somehow making him look even hotter. Or maybe that's just the lust in me refusing ever to quit. "I didn't know it was that obvious. I'm trying to do better. I don't want to be an asshole, big brother."

"What's wrong, then?"

"When I was younger, I tried to convince myself my father was a good man," he replies. "That involved ignoring every bad thing he'd ever done … which was difficult with a man like Konstantin Sokolov. It's impossible when there's evidence of his cheating right there, every day."

"Where's her mom?" I ask.

"She didn't want to raise her daughter, according to my father."

I try to keep my voice nonjudgmental, at least as nonjudgmental as it can be when we're discussing psychopathic liars. "Do you think he was telling the truth?"

"I don't know," Mikhail says thoughtfully. "I've gone back and forth about it. On the one hand, my father was a liar. On the other, I can't imagine him getting sentimental about a baby out of wedlock, especially a girl. No offense."

"I've been around Bratva men ever since I was a kid," I tell him. "I know it's a sexist world."

"I'm trying to be nicer to her," Mikhail replies. "She doesn't deserve me being an asshole. She's a good person."

I take his hand and squeeze it. "So are you."

He looks at me darkly. "You don't know that."

I move closer to him, his warmth enveloping me. In the back of my head, those horrible wedding bells are playing, taunting me, making me want to scream. "I know you've probably had to do some Bratva things in your life, Mikhail."

"Bratva things," he repeats, laughing darkly. "That's a good way to put it."

"I know my family is worse than yours. We, the Petrovs and Dad, are cut-throat compared to you."

"You've got Dimitri to thank for that," he says with apparent pride in his voice. "When he came of age, he wanted nothing to do with the life. Our father was outraged. He was the heir. Would he have to turn to the spare?"

"That's an awful thing to call yourself."

"No, it's not," he snaps. "Because it means I never had to be our father's plaything. It means I was able to live my own life. I could travel and be my own man, but not Dimitri. Dimitri made a deal: no more trafficking, and he'd stay in the life. Our father agreed, probably because it would look bad if his son went AWOL." Mikhail takes a step back. "Anyway, we've got work to do."

I wrap my arms around him, pulling myself close. I put my ear against his chest, savoring the warmth, the moment, and the make-believe dream we can make this work.

Make what work? This relationship? I've never even had one before.

"Thanks for letting me help," I murmur. "I know it's not easy. I'm a Petrov. I'm a woman?—"

"The Bratva, as a whole, look down on women," Mikhail tells me, "but I don't care who you are. If you've got what it takes to do something special, exceptional, and interesting, you've got my respect. It's as simple as that."

"That's very progressive."

Mikhail laughs gruffly. "Don't let the guards hear you say that."