Beastly Passions (7 page)

“How is it that you know that?” Taras questioned.

Alexei snorted. “Mischa. She figured out it was encrypted and gave me this after doing more digging.” He pulled a paper from his back pocket. “
This
copy was not tampered with.”
 

Ah. That explained much. There were very few hackers that could obtain information through the firewalls Grigoriy Verochka’s system had in place. Mischa Alkaev was one of them.

“And why
did
she feel the need to go digging?”

“She looked over the message and saw discrepancies that made her…uncomfortable.” Alexi shrugged. “And we are aware of the things that she is capable of when she’s uncomfortable.”

Taras flicked his eyes over the transactions once more. “He stole more than we thought.”

“Did he?”

The quiet question made him regard the other man for a longer period of time. “You are saying something and yet, nothing at all.”

“Why was I given a copy that didn’t include
all
the transactions, wires and exchanges? Why would Grigoriy clean up the paperwork of Igor’s betrayal, all the while knowing he would be killed? Why cover a portion of the crime and also broadcast it for punishment?”

Taras contemplated those queries for all of a minute. “Because all the crime didn’t reside solely on Igor’s shoulders.”

Alexei smirked. “So there
is
something behind such a pretty face.”

He snarled. “Do not call me pretty.”

“Was not me who started this, but Mischa and the other girls. They seem to find you absolutely stunning.” Alexei fluttered his lashes for emphasis. “Can I insist that you show me the secrets of your beauty one day?”

“I would sooner show you what it feels like to have the skin peeled off of your hands,” Taras calmly informed him, still reviewing the information. “Grigoriy padded this because he is stealing.”

“I never said—” Alexei hedged, only to abruptly stop at the narrowing of Taras’ eyes. He raised his hands. “I do not accuse without proof.”

“We have all the proof we need here. Is all of what Igor siphoned accounted for?”

Alexei shook his head. “Not all but most. Offshore accounts. His business ventures. Miscellaneous expenditures for whores.”

“Do not call them whores unless you know them personally and can detail what it is they have done with their orifices. Even then, it is still a rude practice,” Taras muttered.

The other tiger rocked back on his heels and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Would you like me to call the whores ‘courtesans’ instead?”

“I’m a glorified courtesan. One that you decided to buy permanently due to whatever satisfaction you gain in doing so.”

Taras flinched, crumbling half of the paperwork. “No.”

Shrugging, Alexei said, “Then whores it is.”

“No whores. No courtesans. No prostitutes.
Women,”
he growled. “Call them women and nothing else.”

His friend eyed him, taking the file back. “You are behaving oddly.”

“Because I don’t want to listen to your blatant disregard for what it is to be politically correct or, at the very least, polite to opposite sex?”

“No, because I’ve listened to you stand over men and tell them, with all the profound and disturbing glee that your black soul could muster, that their mothers were whores for Satan’s most beloved pets. And still you are offended that I call those who are
actual
whores that very thing? Why?”

 
Taras flexed his fingers. “I have had the displeasure of hearing it entirely too many times over the last two days. If it is all the same to you, try to refrain from the urge to label Igor’s previous friends.” He nodded at the information in Alexei’s hands. “I want to know why Grigoriy is padding accounts. I want to know how many he has done this with. I want to know who thought it wise to send me this message and why.”

“You believe there are more accounts?”

He snorted. “Of course. We operate in greed. Whether it be that of consumers, partners or enemies turned allies. Whatever Grigoriy is doing, he has a purpose, he always has a purpose.” Taras circled his desk to take a seat. “We just have to determine what the purpose is. My guess is that there was an arrangement beneficial to him. He turned a blind eye to Igor’s actions while—”

“—using him to hide his own practices,” Alexei finished for him.

Taras grunted. “And Igor being Igor, he became sloppy, demanding.”

“Forcing Grigoriy’s hand into ending the agreement.”

“Precisely.”

“And yet, the question remains—why? Why any of this? Why steal from
himself?”

“That money is going somewhere,” Taras retorted, drumming his fingers across the desk. “Somewhere that my dear Papa doesn’t want seen. Particularly by
me.”
He sat back, propping his feet onto the hardwood now. “This is something he doesn’t desire to have in my very capable hands.”

Alexei was quiet for a moment. “Because it could mean your freedom.” If those loyal to Taras knew nothing else, they knew that he didn’t remain here by his own choices. His hands were being forced and his only solace came in the form of acts that some would consider reprehensible. Still the fact remained that wherever this trail led, at the end could indeed be an escape.

Taras stared, mulling over the thought. “Not just my freedom, old friend. Not just mine…”

Five

“I trust
that you are adjusting to your new surroundings well.”

Asha took a glance about her “new surroundings” and barely repressed a sneer as she forced lightness into her voice upon her response to her mother. “As well as can be expected. It has been…interesting to say the least.”

Ishana’s sigh vibrated down the line, the weight of her disappointment heavy as it burdened the sound. “Can you not attempt to sound slightly grateful for the opportunity afforded to you?”

Opportunity afforded to… No, that didn’t even warrant much of a response aside from silence. Her mother was delusional. Delusional as well as rife with the same mentality sheep had when being herded in pastures. Original thoughts were not formed and executed by Ishana Shankur. Independence did not lead her. She didn’t desire to step one foot outside of her door unless a small posse of more mindless, blindly obedient conformists followed her. The irony of a group functioning tigress was not lost on Asha. The breeding was different, the mentality leaning on human instinct for solidarity more so than that of the animal—which told them all to warn others away. Asha had never been one comfortable with that behavior. The kind that made her pride so woefully subordinate; afraid of their own thoughts. They were a hive, constantly in search of a queen. Anyone could wear the crown as long as they had enough revenue to buy themselves into such a position.

Asha’s lip curled slightly. Who was their queen now? Grigoriy or Taras? Did it even matter? Was there some blurred line there that differentiated the two? No, she didn’t believe so. They’d left their scent markers in the form of coins all over a great portion of Russia and Asia. The odor of it was all the same to her.

“You are now married to a man who can protect you properly, child,” Ishana continued. “Someone who is apparently intrigued by your inquisitive nature and sees the benefit of it.”

“Of course,” Asha retorted in a mild tone. “Because this is all I have to offer, correct? My ‘inquisitive nature’? I would not be pleasing any other way.”

Another sigh. “You are a pretty but difficult girl. You do not make things easy for males interested in you. Your charm is limited. And your refusal to submit…” Ishana’s voice trailed off. “Traditionalism is not a curse. It is a way of life. One that makes things…simple.”

“And if I had chosen to follow this way of life, I wouldn’t have been sold? If I had been willing to kneel at the feet of some portly, disgusting little man more than likely looking for a woman interested in spanking him on occasion because, yes,
that
is the caliber of people you know—”

“Asha!”

“—I would have been able to remain in my home country, unaware of how far my pride would go for financial gain?”

“This is about the survival of our people!”

“No!” she all but screamed. “This is about sustaining your status so that you can continue pretending that the elitists around you actually respect your brown skin as opposed to their need to turn their noses up at it and make snide comments about the smell of curry when you enter a room!”

Silence reigned.

Asha’s chest heaved, her heartbeat having accelerated with the rise of her temper. She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d intended to remain coolheaded and rational while stemming the dark feeling of utter uselessness. The echo of her own footsteps on the hallway floors as she walked the grounds had been her only company over the last week and it was driving her mad. Where could she go and what could she do? Her books, her research, the enjoyment of a library had been abandoned for this cold place where every expression was stoic and every breath of air foreign. She was more disgusted with herself than her parents because she hadn’t planned for contingencies. She hadn’t considered what she would do when she got here. She’d only brooded. Ate, slept and brooded. It didn’t feel decadent or relaxing. It felt just as she thought it would—like prison. Only there were better accommodations.

“I am sorry you feel this way, Asha,” her mother finally voiced.

“Are you?” she demanded. “I don’t think you are. I think you are sorry that you didn’t hogtie me and toss me into some male’s trunk upon my first heat. Perhaps an heir to one of your favorite prides would have given you even more leverage? A little dark
bēbi
whom you could hold on your hip and show about in delight because he or she would be a testament of your useful skills as a scavenger. Oh how wondrous would that have been?”

“Enough!” Ishana shouted. “If you see yourself as a victim, it is no fault of mine or your father’s. We attempted to get you the best suitor we could. One that would look after you properly.”

“You really believe the bullshit pouring freely from your mouth right now, don’t you?” Asha queried, a hysterical little laugh bubbling up from her chest. “You actually think you’ve done me a favor by marrying me off to a well-known sociopath.” She chuckled harder. “By the gods, I thought you were a simple opportunist willing to overlook the horrors you submitted your own daughter to, but how wrong was I? You bartered me because you thought you were doing something
good.
Such a lovely sentiment.
”

“It is obvious you are not in the mood to reason,” her mother stated. “So I will call at another time. One where your attitude is better and you are behaving—”

“—Thankful for your betrayal?” Asha filled in. “Don’t bother yourself, Ishana. I’m sure you have more pressing things to do, such as attend a gala or luncheon where you express with exuberance how wonderful my life is now, all the while ignoring the very thought that between my new husband and I, one of us may very well murder the other within the next year.” She didn’t wait for a response, simply ended the call and resisted the urge to haul the phone across the room into the wall. Instead she shoved it aside and abruptly stood from her armchair, pacing before the open doors of her balcony, annoyed with herself. Annoyed with her mother. Annoyed with the world.

She quit tugging at her hair, uninterested in going bald because she couldn’t get a hold on her ever-building rage. Did everyone think her naïve? Ignorant? What they’d done wasn’t for the good of their pride or her safety. What they’d done was cover their own asses. Asha was disposable to them, an asset to be moved. The thought made her skin crawl. Her family had literally looked at her one day and saw dollar signs. This had very little to do with traditionalism and everything to do with currency. And what could she do but remain here, in an environment where she’d already witnessed what happened to those who undermined her husband’s unspoken codes on respect? The same husband that she’d seen all of twice over the last few days.

Masochism demanded that she seek the bastard out, curiosity did as well and basic survival instinct ordered that she stay put in her pretty cell with all of its gorgeous things.

Asha stopped before the open doors of the balcony, eyeing the stretch of trees just over the horizon line. She hadn’t shifted in days, hadn’t run in weeks. The distressing revelation that she was to spend the rest of her years as someone’s
breeder
had taken away all inclination to do so.

Run,
that gravelly voice inside suddenly commanded.
Leap and run.

In a matter of seconds her tunic was gone along with the matching linen pants and any underthings. She shook herself loose and called for her beast, bowing her spine deep once her paws had slammed against the plush carpet of the floor. Tension coiled in her muscles, releasing with a vault through the doors and over the railing of her terrace. Clearing the space two stories off the ground, she landed effortlessly in the grass below. She never looked back as her legs carried her away from her new, unwanted home.

***