by Gaja J. Kos
Whatever they were after, it reeked of more than just taking out an ICRA official.
Morozov muttered something, and a frown creased his sweaty forehead. I leaned closer, straining my ears as he repeated the word over and over. It sounded like a name, but with the roar of the engine, the wailing siren, and the curt exchanges between the paramedics, I could make nothing of relevance out of it. I leaned back. He was probably just delirious from the drugs they’d pumped into him.
A sharp turn sent me grappling for support.
Morozov’s hand twitched by his side when the ambulance accelerated, once more on a straight stretch of road, his fingers curling through the air. It took all I had not to reach out and hold him—offer the only support I could right now. But the paramedics needed their space. And I needed to keep my emotions separate from the case.
Morozov deserved nothing less.
When we arrived at Fürstenfeldbruck nerve-wracking minutes later, I pressed myself flush against the wall as the paramedics ushered Morozov out on the gurney. Another team already waited on site. They sprang into action before my booted feet even hit the pavement, their readiness a strong current in the brisk morning that grazed my skin.
A tall vampire I knew by sight and someone I suspected was a magic wielder of some sort held open the doors as the two teams rushed inside. I remained fast on their heels, sprinting down the corridors and past the Fürstenfeldbruck staff that cleared the passages with expert swiftness and dexterity. It wasn’t until they took Morozov to surgery that I stayed behind, watching those glass doors slide shut.
A petite, brunette doctor, who could be no one else but Lotte’s friend Agniezska, escorted me into an empty space that, while fairly large, still had that same claustrophobic essence as all hospital rooms did. Instinctively, I shifted closer to the window, partially open to allow in the fresh air. With the woods surrounding the facility, the scent was a welcomed one.
“They’ll bring him here after surgery,” Agniezska said softly and gestured to an empty chair set by the freshly made bed. “You should wait for him here.”
I nodded and all but collapsed into the seat.
The vampire lingered by the door. She chewed on her lower lip, fingers splayed across the frame. “Can I get you anything, Greta? Coffee, maybe?”
“Coffee sounds great,” I croaked.
She flashed me a brief, compassionate smile and left. Only I never did get the chance to taste that promised coffee. As the door closed behind Agniezska and enveloped me in silence, my too-exhausted body crashed.
* * *
“Greta.”
I groaned and buried my head deeper against the soft, clean-smelling fabric. An undertone of something my foggy mind failed to make out tickled my senses, but whatever effort I wanted to put into studying my surroundings was promptly swept away by a light touch that traced down the side of my outstretched hand.
Affectionate. Warm.
I purred and nestled my cheek against the linen.
“Greta,” the voice prompted again.
The voice.
I froze, then looked up. I lay half sprawled atop the hospital bed, my butt still in the chair, but my torso pitched forward and twisted sideways on the mattress. And…
I was holding Morozov’s hand.
What—
I jumped back as if stung, but the werewolf gazing at me with amusement so shamelessly alive in his eyes refused to let go. He simply adjusted his hold on my hand, his thumb still tracing gentle circles across my skin.
My cheeks heated.
“You’ve been here all this time?” he asked.
I looked around for a clock, but found none.
“It’s a little after noon,” Morozov informed me with a quick flick of his gaze at the wall behind me.
Instinctively, I turned—and did a double take of the clock resting above the door. Noon. Shit. The station. Detective Hunt. I had to get my ass into gear if I wanted to drop by Violet Crimes HQ to bring them up to speed and catch a damn shower before heading over to meet with Hunt after five. Maybe a nap, too. My body was definitely rooting for that despite whatever sleep I’d gotten here, hogging the damn hospital bed. And, apparently, my boss. But as soon as my gaze locked on Morozov’s, I knew that even if I’d been aware of the time, I wouldn’t have left his side.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I didn’t have anyone to debrief to with my boss out cold, so I thought I’d keep an eye out here.”
He rewarded my comment with one of those rare, full-on smiles that brightened his rough features into something utterly devastating.
“That is inconvenient,” he mused. “Very irresponsible of your boss to skip out on his duties. But you seemed pretty out cold yourself just a little earlier.”
A part snort, part laugh left my lips. I was just thankful I hadn’t been drooling all over the place. Wouldn’t be the first time, as spent as my mind and body had been when I’d crashed.
Though a part of me wanted to keep on with the banter, I casually removed my hand from Morozov’s and leaned back, straightening my smelly and worse-for-wear clothes. “I also thought you might want to know that we have agents working the case. I left Mads in charge of the scene. And the main ICRA faction sent over a few of theirs to help assist with the initial investigation.” I pursed my lips, sifting through the convos I’d somehow managed to hold in those moments when everyone had arrived at once and the warehouse had exploded in a damn storm of activity. “Maybe even see it through to the end, depending on the scale of the threat.”
Whatever light had been gracing Morozov’s face winked out faster than the lightweights I used to serve back when I’d still been working in a biergarten.
Morozov didn’t comment, just sort of stared at the off-white wall for a few moments, as if battling whatever shit the information had stirred within him.
“That’s good,” he said and met my gaze, though it was clear he didn’t mean it. “How are you doing?”
One of my eyebrows shot up. Now that right there was a change of subject if there ever was any. I’d definitely gained my fair share of experience in the area since Morozov became my boss…
I opened my mouth to answer when I remembered something. “Pavlov—that’s what one of the werewolves said, wasn’t it?”
Morozov’s stare didn’t waver. But he didn’t confirm or deny the fact.
I shook my head as my brain kicked into higher gear, the fog that had been clouding my mind finally clearing out and leaving only the bare bones I should have seen right from the very start in plain sight.
“They were after you specifically,” I said, maybe a bit harsher than I intended. “That was a trap made for you.”
Morozov reached out and took my hand in his. “You’re tired, Greta. You’re reading too much into the whole situation. ICRA agents are always targets. You know that yourself. The higher the rank, the larger the threat that someone will come after us.”
Anger kindled in the pit of my stomach. “So you’re saying the werewolves didn’t know you? That you didn’t know them?”
Morozov offered a non-committal shrug.
Well, fuck him.
I snatched my hand from his and pushed up. The chair skidded across the floor, hitting the wall behind me with a loud smack.
“I might be your employee, Demyan,” I snapped, “but I’m not paid to listen to or swallow your damn lies.”
Chapter Seven
The few hours of sleep I caught in one of our “crash” rooms at HQ after putting in a coffee delivery order for Detective Hunt did little to alleviate my mood. Even the rest of the Violent Crimes team seemed to pick up on my inclination to snarl at even the smallest inconvenience and consequently gave me wide berth.
Not that it was hard, with all of us running ourselves ragged as we tried to push through the ungrateful shitload of cases that had piled up on our laps.
I’d taken point on Morozov’s attack. Mads hadn’t put up any fight at all when I’d requested all the
files and basically booted him off the case. He was eager to get rid of at least some of the workload, although I could have done without the knowing look once we’d made the deal.
For a gruff werewolf, Mads certainly had a knack for being the gossip brigade and, aside from Lotte, was the single person who regularly cheered on my affections for the boss. The one person from the team who knew there was a whole lot more to the spikes in my energy whenever I was around Morozov than plain old innocent attraction that usually led nowhere.
Though after our talk at the hospital, I was more inclined to stab the man than sleep with him.
I drank up the dregs of my already cold coffee and flipped open another file. ICRA might be a worldwide organization, but the numerous branches didn’t exactly always have an open channel of communication going on. I’d managed to get two profiles from the British branch once I realized that was where two of the attacking werewolves had been spotted last, which was a damn fine achievement in such a short time frame. The rest was still printing downstairs, courtesy of our fearless assistant who didn’t mind intimidating her way to fast-tracking info whenever we hit a wall. I made a mental note to ask Clara to teach me her ways over a pitcher of beer or three. That woman might not be a magic wielder, but she sure as fuck had magic in her voice.
I’d just begun to read through the scumbag’s less than impressive life, which was basically a string of offenses the authorities had difficulties tying to him, when several voices sounded at once. I tensed at the greeting, the damn name my teammates were all saying.
If it wouldn’t come across as totally petty and immature, I would have gladly ignored the thickset figure of my boss marching across the floor like he hadn’t been unconscious in the damn hospital just this morning.
“Agent Freundenberger,” Morozov greeted me once our gazes met.
Whether it was the formality or just my temper, I bit out, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The other agents quickly found something else to occupy themselves with. Excellent restraint that they didn’t form a damn stampede out the door.
“Working,” he replied dryly. “Unless ICRA found a replacement without notifying me, I’m pretty sure I still run this division.”
I scowled at him. He knew damn well what I meant.
Sure, werewolves healed fast, but penciling in some recovery time was never a bad thing, especially if we didn’t want to end up fucking broken at the next little run-in. Which, as someone from the Violent Crimes division, was an inevitable scenario.
When I kept my chin held high and jaw set tight, Morozov said, “My office, Freundenberger. Now.”
He walked away without another word, but even as I glared after him, I couldn’t help noticing he looked…weak. Worn out. Either from the strain his body had gone through, or the kind that belonged to the mind. Possibly both.
I blew out a breath and followed him into the office, then shut the door behind me when he motioned me to.
“You can yell at me all you want. I acted like a complete ass,” he said, rubbing his chin.
I just stared at him.
I expected to be reprimanded for my behavior. Not given a free pass to lash out.
“So you called me into your office just to tell me I can let my temper loose?” I crossed my arms. “Somehow I’m not buying it.”
Morozov laughed, but there was something tired in the sound. “You’re right.”
He walked around his desk and leaned against it, his powerful legs stretched out front and arms crossed—mirroring my pose. Stubborn, we definitely were.
Though contrary to what I might have expected, Morozov didn’t drag things out. “Greta, I wanted to thank you properly. For saving my life.”
He cut me a look when I opened my mouth, silencing me more effectively than any gag could.
“As I should have done at the hospital. The last person who deserves my lies is you.” The nuances of his scent confirmed every word. “But sometimes the truth can’t just come out. Not when it isn’t exactly straightforward.”
“Cryptic much?” I arched an eyebrow.
Morozov laughed—sincerely this time. “Would you like to grab a beer with me? As a thank you?”
I let the fact that he hadn’t answered my question slide and cocked my head to the side. “That’s all my trouble’s worth to you? A beer?”
“All right.” He pushed off the desk, towering over me despite my not exactly negligible height. “Dinner, then.”
A part of me wanted to decline. On principle, if not for anything else.
But for the most part, everything within me screamed to accept the invitation. Dinner with Demyan Morozov.
The werewolf who looked at me as if I were something to be devoured.
Dangerous fucking territory.
But that was the life I breathed.
“Dinner it is,” I said, my voice so damn raw Morozov’s lips twitched. Fuck, was the man attractive.
“I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.”
He returned behind his desk, ignoring me—though a masculine smirk remained on his face. Damn him.
I hightailed it out of the office like I was some infatuated human instead of a cold-blooded killer. A few agents, Mads among them, to no one’s surprise, cast curious glances my way. I ducked my head, not wanting them to see the color that surely stained my cheeks if the unbearable heat in that area was any indication.
Morozov.
I shook my head.
Demyan fucking Morozov asked me out to dinner.
I had half the mind to text Lotte, but engaging in any sort of teasing with her would only make it that much harder to survive until the evening. Especially with the delicious werewolf just a wall away.
So I returned to the files instead to occupy myself before I could reach out to Detective Hunt. Clara had apparently visited the floor while I’d been with Morozov since the stack on my desk had grown since I’d last seen it. I plucked the topmost folder and spread it open over the one I’d been reading earlier. A comprehensive rap sheet spelled out the numerous crimes of the werewolf. He wasn’t muscle for hire, not by the pitiful amount of money in his account. Gang, then. Low on the food chain.
I set the file aside to investigate that angle later, pulled out the second folder, and flipped it open.
A harsh face I immediately recognized stared back at me. The werewolf who’d spoken to Morozov. The one whose brains I blew all over the place.
I frowned and read through the basics.
Aleksei Valanovic.
Spine straight, I swallowed, then checked again.
Russian.
The werewolf who attacked Morozov was Russian.
Worse yet, he was right about the same age as my boss.
Chapter Eight
Morozov’s gaze burned holes in my skin as I examined the intimate setting of the small, warm-toned, rustic restaurant he’d taken us to. I hadn’t known what to expect, but this little thing comprised of dark wood and tasteful splashes of red certainly wasn’t it. Especially when the entire place seemed to be closed down, leaving just the two of us and the charming couple who owned the restaurant within the building.
A family affair, Morozov had elaborated once I inquired about the peculiar setting. Of course that hadn’t answered my question—which had been why we were alone—but I supposed he couldn’t break his evasive streak now, could he? So instead of revealing why it looked like he’d reserved the entire restaurant, he explained the place was run by a husband-and-wife team. They had staff on normal days, even cooks, though they loved spending time in the kitchen and getting actual work done themselves.
If the blend of delicious aromas weaving into the room was any indication, the world was lucky to have them behind the stove.
“Do you plan to ignore me the entire evening, Greta?” Morozov asked, amusement evident.
I peeled my gaze away from the Russian decor and faced him. “Just taking in the view, boss.”
“Clearl
y.” He smirked. Shit, I hadn’t even noticed my gaze had roamed down his torso—down those fine, toned arms and firm, broad chest. “And no boss. Not right now. I told you I wanted to thank you for saving my life, and I’m not doing that as your superior.”
“Fine, then. Morozov.”
“Demyan.”
We stared at each other, two stubborn as fuck wolves. The downside was that, while I’d had my fair share of experience thanks to my many siblings, I simply didn’t have the willpower to best this particular Black were.
I rolled my eyes. “Demyan.”
“Better.”
There were at least five different comebacks poised at the tip of my tongue, but all of them vaporized the instant the kitchen doors swung open and the rich fragrances ensnared my senses. Ivan came out first, his wife hot on his heels. Both of their hands were full, the dishes steaming and absolutely mouthwatering. They set them on the table before us with the easiness of pros. It was an effort not to drool all over the place as I thanked them. Much to Morozov’s—Demyan’s—entertainment.
“I wish you both a lovely meal,” Uliana said in heavily accented German, then went towards the coat rack by the door. She grabbed a light coat, threw it on—
And left.
Puzzled, I looked at Demyan, but his attention was on the man with salt-and-pepper hair.
“Ya ochen’ blagodaren, Ivan,” he said, thanking him, I suspected, as Demyan gestured to the meal before he swept his arm to encompass the entire restaurant. Despite his size and stature, there was nothing but elegance in the simple motion. Though I couldn’t help but notice the discreet bulge of his muscles.
I looked away before my thoughts carried me somewhere I wasn’t quite ready to go.
Ivan inclined his head. “Ne za chto, Demyan. If you and your lovely friend”—he cast an open, carefree smile my way—“find yourself in need of anything, you know where we have our stores.”
“I do.” Demyan nodded, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with warmth. “I’ll lock up and make sure everything is well once we’re done.”
