“That’s what he told me to call him.”

Maksim turned to him. “You’re no longer a mere enforcer. Your fiancée should call you something more personal.”

“I’m not his . . .” Oh, forget it. Neither man was listening to me.

The two stared each other down, Roman seeming on the verge of blows. Before the shit hit the fan, I might as well try to get answers out of one Sevastyan. I asked Maksim, “Why have you been meeting with him all week?”

“He’s been using me to help extricate you from the mafiya—trading syndicate holdings for clean ones of equal value. Like a billion-dollar game of Monopoly. He has power of attorney, and I have the means to get these things done secretly and quickly. So I have—without even a single thanks, I might add.” Maksim cast a pointed look at his brother, but there seemed to be an underlying amusement in him, as if he found this situation humorous.

I whirled around on Sevastyan. “You could have taken me to those meetings, or at the very least told me about them. They concerned my inheritance!”

“You’ve shown no interest in this money—”

“You’re one to talk, brother,” Maksim cut in. To me, he said, “Roman could have made himself a billionaire this week. But for reasons I don’t follow, he refused to rob you, refused to break his word to your father. He’s worked on your behalf to disentangle Kovalev’s legacy from crime. And once that’s complete, Roman will step in as vor in the territory.”

My eyes narrowed on Sevastyan. “I asked you about this! Seems like that might’ve been a decision we made together.” He’d signed on for a new position without even a mention to me. Because I wasn’t a partner; I was a possession.

One didn’t ask one’s favorite toy to discuss potential career paths. Ugh!

Scowling down at me, he bit out the words, “Natalie, upstairs—now.”

“You did not just bark another order at me.” In front of his brother? Blood heated my cheeks. Did he think he could command me like this simply because he did in bed?

Why wouldn’t he believe that? Dear God, I hadn’t made things better by trusting him sexually—I’d made them worse.

Weeks ago, I’d asked myself what I was prepared to do to get more from Sevastyan.

My definitive answer: not this.

I needed to accept that nothing I could do was going to move the needle with this man. He would always be closed off. And I deserved more than a satellite’s orbit and a collection of lies.

I deserved preservation of self. Or I’d rather be alone.

It was as if a neon sign was slowly crackling, clicking, popping to life in my brain. The lights spelled: This relationship is doomed, dumbass!

I had steel in my backbone and fire in my belly. My time was valuable; I didn’t reward shitty behavior with more of it. I can’t fix him, Paxán.

Maksim told me, “Don’t listen to him, dorogaya moya.” My dear. “You need to teach him that orders—outside of some . . . situations—are unwelcome.”

How much did this man know about my sex life? If they went to the same club, did the two brothers share similar interests?

You know what? That is none of my business.

“Roman is a handful, no?” Maksim continued. “A silent, brooding handful. If it’s any consolation, he has always talked this little, sharing nothing of himself. When we were children, quiet was rewarded. The opposite was . . . not.”

I didn’t have time to puzzle at his words before Sevastyan growled, “Zatknis’ na hui!” Shut the f**k up! Clearly about to go ballistic, he told me, “Leave now! Or I will carry you to our room.”

When I told Maksim, “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he flashed me a look of disappointment, as if he’d thought I would fight more. “I’ll be upstairs,” I said. A lie, to put with Sevastyan’s.

I won’t settle. I’m going to keep my eyes on the horizon.

In our room, I packed a messenger bag with my new passport, my cherished letter from Paxán, and some cash. I grabbed my wrap coat, my cell phone, and nothing else.

On my way out, I flipped off the bedroom camera. ABC, baby.

Do svidaniya, Siberian.

Chapter 41

“Your flight is about to board,” a French security guard told me as he inspected my ticket and fake passport.

In a matching fake accent, I said, “I’m surprisingly quick.” Especially if properly motivated.

An hour ago, I’d used the maid’s entrance to slip out of the town house, sneaked past the groaning guard, then hailed a cab. On the way to the airport, I’d used my phone to buy an economy ticket to Nebraska.

I’d chosen my flight based on one criterion. It departed, like, now. I just had to hope that this passport would work.

I stifled a sigh of relief when the man handed it back. “Mademoiselle, you’ll have to run to make your plane.”

“Thanks!” I called over my shoulder. Run? In heels and a demi-cup bra? Beautiful. My heels clicked along, boobs bouncing—to the delight of a pair of males I passed. This is why I preferred to wear minimizers!

As I rushed down the concourse, I called Jess.

She answered on the first ring. “How’d the splinterectomy go?”

“I left him to die on the table.” I darted glances around me, wondering how much time I had before Sevastyan noticed I was gone. “I’m at the airport right now.” Leaving him was for the best. I needed to go home, to see my friends and my mom. To sort through everything that had happened to me. To get back to my old self.