Page 30 of The Wrong Monster

“I expect you to remember it.”

For the briefest moment, something shifts in her expression. The memory is there.

The hotel suite. The heat between us.

The kiss she initiated.

The way we both decided to ignore the obvious—that we’d made a mistake.

“It meant nothing.”

I hold her gaze. “If that’s true, why are you so angry?”

“I’m angry because you kidnapped me,” she bristles, arms crossed. But I catch those blue eyes flickering over my body while she bites her bottom lip. She’s suppressing something, and I have a good idea of what it is.

“I’m not helping you until I know exactly who you are.”

For the first time since entering the room, I give her what she wants.

“My name,” I say quietly, “is Vasily Borisov.”

The color drains from her face once more. There’s no confusion there, just recognition.

Interesting. It makes sense that she’d be familiar with my counterparts in the city, but apparently my reputation has preceded me.

She knows the name.

Now, she understands exactly whose house she’s standing in. And that there’s no escape.

Chapter 9

Matilda

The most torturous thing he could’ve done was leave me my phone. I know it’s been exactly twenty hours and forty-eight minutes since we last spoke. Twenty hours and forty-eight minutes since he offered me an ultimatum.

Help him with his legal troubles, and I’ll be able to return to my life, untouched.

But men like Vasily Borisov are liars. I don’t need a decades-long career to know that.

The room is large; I’ve practically worn a path into the hardwood floor with all my pacing. I go from the bed to the door, around the armchair to the little sitting area, then past the window. It doesn’t actually open but looks out onto a tantalizing sliver of lake.

It’s dark now. A darkness I’m not used to; there are no streetlights here and no cars passing by. Just the lake and the woods and whatever is out there in the night.

On my tenth lap, or maybe it’s my fiftieth, I stop beneath the security camera.

The tiny red light stares back.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Borisov.”

Silence. Of course, it’s a camera, not an intercom. Still, I can’t help the sarcasm in my tone as I add, “Today would be ideal.”

Two minutes go by. Still nothing.

Rolling my eyes, I return to pacing.

Exactly fourteen minutes later, the lock clicks, the door opens, and Vasily steps inside alone.

Prompt. Very prompt. I file that away immediately.