Yulia is still reading when I step into my office, her blond head bent over the open pages of a Michael Crichton techno-thriller. She’s holding the book on her lap—the only position the ropes securing her to the armchair allow.
At the sound of my entry, she looks up, her gaze filled with wariness. She’s expecting me to push for information, and her fear is like gasoline on the flames of my fury.
Far be it from me to disappoint my prisoner.
“Why are you protecting them?” I cross the room and stop in front of her. My voice is cold, though the anger coursing through my veins is hot enough to burn. “What do they mean to you?”
Yulia’s gaze drops to my stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I crouch in front of her, so we’re at the same eye level. Extending my
