I follow her out and lean against the doorway when she goes into the bathroom. She catches sight of me when closes the door, and her startled gaze turns frightened. As angry as I am, it doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve scared her beyond chastisement. Natasha wears the look of someone who believes terrible things are going to happen to her.
Well, no wonder. Did I actually threaten her life in the car? I didn’t mean it. I would never harm a woman, especially not Natasha. Natasha is my constant torture. The woman I can’t have but I can’t make myself stop wanting.
Damn her for twisting me up like this! Flaying me alive. Making me fail my brother and my organization.
Fuck.
The toilet flushes and the sink turns on. And runs and runs.
Nyet. Suddenly the images of every action movie where the hero or heroine turns on the shower or sink and then crawls out the bathroom window flood my head. Was there a window in that bathroom?
I lurch for the bathroom door handle and wrench it open. Expecting it to be locked, I throw half my weight against the door… and tumble through when it flies inward.
Natasha screams. The water from her hands, which she was washing in the sink, splashes across me. “Jesus. What are you doing?” she snaps, the first sign of push-back she’s given me, ever.
I step back, shaking my head. “I thought you’d left the water on and crawled out a window,” I mutter.
Natasha scoffs and makes a show of looking around the tiny bathroom. “The invisible window?”
She’s right. There’s no window. A fact I would’ve known if I’d given any thought whatsoever to the location of the bathroom with regard to the layout of the building. My brain obviously is still not online.
“How long does it take to wash your hands?” I turn it back on her.
Her shoulders sag, and she looks at her hands, flipping them over to examine them. “Yeah, well, I was having a bit of a Lady Macbeth moment with the blood.”
I don’t know my English literature well enough to understand the reference, but I make a mental note to look it up the next time I’m in front of my computer.
Like any time I’m not behind a screen, I feel untethered; yet with tonight’s events, it’s hard to imagine going back there. I can’t manipulate from behind the scenes tonight. Not when my brother’s bleeding on a vet’s table, and the woman I’ve vowed not to touch has forever shattered my sanctity. No code or hack can help Nikolai. There’s no manipulation of fate I can orchestrate to change outcomes in our favor.
I back out of the bathroom to let her pass, but when she comes out, she steps into the mini-kitchen area next to the bathroom. Examining the Keurig, she asks, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No,” I say shortly then sigh. “Ravil probably will, though.”
She snaps a fresh brew cup in, fills the machine with water, and places a mug underneath. When it fills, she makes a second cup, then walks past me into the reception area.
Damn her. I don’t want her fucking sweetness, and the girl is pretty much always sweet. It changes nothing.
I follow her in and watch as she quietly offers the coffee to Ravil and Maxim, who both accept it from her. She ignores me and walks back, making another cup for herself and bringing little creamers and sugar in for Ravil and Maxim.
I settle against a wall and fold my arms across my chest, refusing to look at her, even though her silent presence fills the room.
Like Ravil told me when I was driving here. I need to keep a cool head—for Nikolai’s sake. And that means keeping my fucking distance from Natasha, my own personal detonator.
4
Natasha
I really need a piece of chocolate. Or a whole barrel-full. My adrenals are tanking from the stress, and I’m shaky all over and running on empty.
“Natasha, we’ll have a word with you now.” Ravil tips his head toward the inner door of the lab.
Maxim follows him out.
For a moment, I can’t move as ice-cold fear grips my throat, making it hard to breathe. Those dry sobs that hit me earlier in the vehicle return, and I stumble toward the door nearly hyperventilating.
Dima comes up to me from behind and catches my nape with a firm grip. “Hey.”
I can’t look at him. I know he hates me. Ravil hates me. I have no idea what they’re going to do to me, but it can’t be good.
“Hey,” Dima repeats with more authority. “Look at me,” he says in a low voice, meant only for my ears.
I work to calm my pulse as I meet his blue gaze. Surprisingly, it’s not as cold now—it seems more troubled than angry.