Page 131 of Hunt Me, Daddy

“I know,” I said.

She looked at me. “We release it.”

“Not tonight.”

Her head turned slowly. There was fury ready there. Defiance. The same dangerous brightness that made her so difficult to protect and impossible not to want. I stepped closer, stopping just short of touching her. Her gaze dropped once to my hand. Then back to my face.

“Mikhail just threatened me,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And you want to wait.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because if we released everything tonight, the war would become public before our people were in place.

Because Maxim needed time to move.

Because Sergei was already protecting witnesses.

Because the Orlovs had taken the bait, and another hour of movement would give us more than one dead man’s justice.

All of that was true, but none of it was the answer she needed most.

“Because we have done enough for one day,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed.

“And because,” I said, taking one step closer, “for tonight, he does not get you.”

Kit did not move.

Neither did I.

The phone sat on the desk with Mikhail’s message still glowing faintly. Daniel’s file lay beside it. The city darkened beyond the windows, evening gathering itself in the glass. My brothers had gone. Maxim had approved resources. Mikhail Orlov had made the mistake of speaking directly to a woman who had already decided not to run.

Everything waited.

So did she.

I held her gaze and gave her the only answer I was willing to end the night on.

“Tonight is ours.”

CHAPTER 23

Kit

Ivan’s words hung in the quiet of the room, heavy with the promise of something I hadn’t realized I was starving for.

I wanted to tell him no. To push, to argue, to point out that every second we waited was a second Mikhail Orlov could use to cover his tracks, to make more threats, to disappear. My brain, the part of me that had kept me alive and focused for seven years, screamed that this was a mistake. But my body, the traitorous, exhausted thing that had been carrying my grief like a stone in my chest, had a differing opinion.

When he stepped closer, I didn’t back away. I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot, my gaze locked with his, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and my lungs. He raised a hand, not to grab me, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the stinging memory of his palm on my bare bottom not so long ago.

“Come here,solnyshko,” he said softly.