Page 48 of The Wrong Monster

My pulse doesn’t slow down; it only picks up in irritation.

It’s been four days. Four days since I “agreed” to help Vasily. Having a client hasn’t stopped me being a hostage.

My nervous system is keeping excellent track of that distinction.

Yesterday’s private call with Mikhail at least put a voice to the file. We’ve arranged a longer visit once I’ve worked through the first batch of records. None of that explains why someone is in my bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

The man finally looks at me. “Mr. Borisov requires you.”

“At one in the morning?”

“Yes.”

Anxiety makes my stomach flip. What could he possibly want in the middle of the night? I imagine him in his suite, but the image is taken over by what he looked like the very first time I saw him, shirtless and cut and hungry for⁠—

“Did he suddenly forget mornings exist?” I interrupt my own thoughts, refusing to imagine that this is anything more than an emergency legal matter.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of amusement. God, these people are exhausting.

“I’m sleeping.”

“You’re awake now.” His expression remains perfectly infuriatingly blank. “I’m here to gather you.”

Gather. Apparently everyone in this house thinks I’m some kind of inanimate object. Arthur has taught his men well.

I throw the blankets back harder than necessary and immediately regret it.

Silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. Great. Exactly the outfit I’d choose for a midnight summons from the Russian mafia.

Embarrassment prickles beneath my skin, followed almost instantly by irritation. Not at my “escort,” but at myself. Because beneath the annoyance is something I hate even more—fear.

I stand anyway, folding my arms across my middle as though it somehow makes me less exposed. No way am I about to ask him to step out again so I can change. I don’t want him, or anyone else in this place, to think I care that much.

“Lead the way.”

He turns without a word.

I follow him into the cool, dim hallway, barefoot against polished hardwood, wondering what could possibly be important enough to wake me in the middle of the night.

With Vasily, I already know I probably don’t want the answer.

Arthur is, surprisingly, waiting outside the doors that lead to Vasily’s rooms. My eyes narrow; something has to be wrong.

He pushes both doors open with a massive arm as my escort stops abruptly. I stride inside with every intention of making my irritation known, only to stop short.

Vasily’s still wearing the same dark trousers and rolled-sleeve button-down I’d seen him in yesterday afternoon. The jacket is gone, abandoned over the back of a chair, but everything else is unchanged. Coffee mugs litter the corner of his desk beside half a dozen open files and a map of Essex County covered in colored markers.

He hasn’t gone to bed.

The realization steals a little wind from my sails.

He’s still working, or never stopped. Still, I swallow and try to bulldoze forward to make it known that this is not acceptable if we’re going to be working together.

“You woke me up.”

He doesn’t even look up. “I did.”