Holding my phone out to her, I told her, “Your phone number.”
A surge of electricity moved through me from where her warm fingers brushed mine.
She dropped the phone on the table beside my plate after typing in her number. Picking it up, I entered the contact name and saved it.
“You’ll have your own guards from now on.”
“What? Why? I mean, it’s not necessary. It’s not like I ever leave the house.”
“True, but you were also in the house when Lucien’s men came the last time. Even if you don’t go out, they can come here to attack.”
She didn’t respond, so I went on.
“Marielle, the whole reason for this arrangement was to protect you, am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’m going to do just that, and you won’t stop me. You agreed to accept my protection when you said yes.”
“Right,” she muttered before facing her food again.
I felt anger rise from within me. Not toward her but at the whole situation.
I had no idea how to diffuse the riot I’d just caused.
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it when we were eating.
“Are you actually Russian?” she asked before looking up from her food.
I didn’t answer right away; I wasn’t expecting her to ask that or even say anything at all.
“Yes. My brothers and I were born and brought up in Vladivostok.”
She nodded.
“Why did you ask? It was so random.”
She shrugged.
“I was just wondering if you just run a Russian organization or if you’re really Russian.”
“Okay. What about you? Fully American?”
“Nope. My paternal grandfather was French,” she replied. Then, she added, “My last name is French.”
“Really?”
“Marielle Rue. That’s my full name.”
“Marielle Rue,” I repeated, loving the sound of it.
Silence reigned—a peaceful kind, this time—before I asked, “Do you know my full name?”
“Eduard Yezhov. Of course, I know your full name.”
I thought of what to do to make her say it again. But I came up with nothing.
“How old are you?”
