Page 79 of Savage Boss
“Dmitri,” she says, her voice low, inviting. Then again, Natasha is always inviting where I'm concerned. It has already grown tiresome, but tonight it only makes me angrier.
Her eyes widen, and she takes a startled step back as I shove the door open, nearly into her face. Her eyes flick to Pavel behind me.
“Tell me where she is.” The barked command echoes through her entryway.
To her credit, Natasha doesn't jump. But I see the mask slip on in the way she lifts her head slightly, her lips compressing into a small smile that tells me she's slipping into the persona she wears so easily—the innocent one she uses to weaken men's defenses and get whatever she wants.
But I know her tricks, and I know that mask.
“Tell me where she is, Natasha. I am not playing games.” I advance on her, and she backs away, fear finally beginning to show in her eyes.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Dmitri.”
“Bullshit.” She flinches at the dangerous energy in my tone. “You're going to tell me where she is, and you're going to tell me now. Or I will find other ways to get it out of you.”
Natasha has backed into her sitting room, with me ever close. There’s a fire cracklingin the hearth, a half glass of wine on a side table beside the plush couch, and a thick cashmere blanket thrown to the side, along with a book. Looks like she was reading before we got here. The thought makes me see red; knowing she was here, relaxing and reading, while Clara is out there somewhere in horrible danger.
“I don't know what you mean, Dmitri.”
I pull the gun from its holster under my coat and aim at the wine glass beside her. I squeeze the trigger, the sharp crack echoing throughout the large room. The glass explodes into a hundred shimmering shards, deep red staining the white couch and throw, several drops landing on Natasha's cheek.
Natasha doesn't scream. She gasps, her posture stiffening against the indication of the gun in my hand.
“Where is Clara?” I enunciate each word sharply, stepping closer. Natasha has nowhere to go. She falls onto the sofa, leaning back as far as she can as I lean forward. I can smell her expensive perfume and the sweet smell of the wine, now dripping onto the floor. I grip her chin. “Where did Andrey take her?”
“I–I don't know,” she blabbers in a whisper, the words catching in her throat. She shakes her head weakly, struggling against my grip. “Dmitri, I swear on my mother's grave, I don't know what you are talking about. I haven't seen Andrey in three days.”
My fingers tighten on her jaw, forcing her to look straight at the furious storm in my eyes. I look for the lie, the flicker of performance living behind Natasha's gaze. But her face, so similar to her twin's, is softer, missing the tell of sociopathic cruelty. Natasha is a hard woman, shaped by the world she grew up in and by the demands of running a company and gaining respect. But she also has a fragile, entitled elegance, one that prevents her from being as devious as her brother.
And right now, I see only panic.
“Do not insult me with the theatrics,” I snarl. “Your brother's tearing my life apart, piece by bloody piece. I know he has her. You are his sister, his twin, his confidant.Where is she?”
She blanches at the low growl I'm making in my throat, at whateversavageexpression must be on my face.
“I don't know where she is, Dmitri! He hasn't told me anything about her or his plans for her. I swear. I had no idea anything was even going on. I just returned from Hong Kong today—it's why I'm up so late, the damn jet lag.”
The words spill out in a way that makes me believe she’s telling the truth.
“He doesn't tell me anything, Dmitri. Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?” I place my other hand on the cushion next to her head. Natasha flinches, then looks away, shame flushing up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. And then the dam breaks.
Her eyes glimmer in the firelight as tears gather, her breath hitching as she struggles to control herself. “I thought he wasfinally leaving you alone,” she says, her voice ragged. “I swear I didn't know he was escalating. I didn't know about Clara.”
I watch Natasha carefully, searching the landscape of her face and her emotions. It's too real. Natasha is good, but not this good, not when she's cornered. Not when she has a twisted mix of emotions on her face.
I take my hand from her chin. “You thought he was leaving me alone? What do you mean?”
The silence that follows is thick with tension. Natasha’s shoulders slump in defeat.
“When Lauren was—” she starts but chokes, clearing her throat before continuing. “I didn't know, but I suspected.”
The blood freezes in my veins. The air around me spins as the original wound, the trauma that destroyed me, is ripped wide open.
“You suspected?” I echo, the words dripping with lethal cold. “You suspected, and you did nothing?”
“He's my brother, Dmitri! I had no proof, only a feeling. The timing was too convenient.” Her eyes swell with tears again as they meet mine. “It was after I saw you two at the opera gala that year. You looked… happy. Happy in a way I had never been able to make you. And then she was pregnant after you swore up and down you didn't want children, and I realized that what you meant was you didn't want children with me. You didn't want a life with me. You wanted a life with a woman outside of our world, someone who was my opposite in every way that mattered. I got drunk that night. I told Andrey something along the lines that I would never be whole again as long as you were with Lauren.”
