Page 67 of Sexting His Assistant

Luka says nothing.

The air shifts, the easy insulting warmth between them disappearing under something colder. I can almost see it happen—the return of the world I glimpsed in the garage, the one made of locked doors, guns, and men who speak in half sentences because the other half is too dangerous to say aloud.

Misha’s gaze cuts toward me. He stops.

I hate that.

I hate that everyone suddenly remembers I’m in the room whenever the real conversation begins.

Luka notices too. His voice remains even when he says, “Say it.”

Misha’s mouth tightens. “Not in front of her.”

“I’m right here,” I say.

“Yes,” Misha says, looking at me. “That’s the problem.”

I fold my arms. “I work for him.”

“For the legitimate side,” Misha says.

“Yes.”

“You saw tonight how thin that wall is.”

I don’t answer immediately.

Because he’s right. And because I hate that he is right.

Luka sets the tea down. “Enough.”

Misha turns to him. “No. Not enough.”

“Misha,” I warn.

He looks back at me, and for one second his anger cracks enough for fear to show through. Real fear.

The kind that has nothing to do with pride and everything to do with imagining me on that garage floor again.

“You should not have been there,” he says.

“I know.”

“You could have died.”

“So could he,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

Silence.

Luka’s gaze moves to me. I feel it everywhere.

Misha looks between us again, and this time the question on his face is not subtle at all.

I turn away first.

Because apparently that’s what I do now. I survive bullets, argue with mob-adjacent billionaires, and then lose my nerve when someone looks too closely at the truth sitting between me and Luka Kazan.

Misha’s phone rings.