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“I know,” he says. “I wish I could give Aleksandr my regards. Maybe someday soon.”
Turns out, I was wrong. My villain-radar sucks.
But how could this man be the one threatening my sister? He looks like he could be mugged by a Backstreet Boy with a pair of safety scissors. I’m suddenly much more worried about the men Nojus is sending, and annoyed by the fact that I mailed my cell phone to myself with a dramatic note.
“Is this some kind of prank?” I ask. “Because Mirdza—”
“I just told my men to release her.” He tilts his head sideways, examining me. “You’re taller than I thought from the press images after winning the Grand National. And have you gained a bit of weight?”
This guy’s rude, too. “Now, listen here.”
“Oh, I’m delighted to listen to anything you care to say,” he says. “You’re really a marvel to me, you know. When the men told me their powers just dissolved when they touched you, I thought they were lying. They’re creative in excusing their failures, you know, always have been. That’s the problem with people who were raised wealthy. They’re always full of excuses.”
Raised rich? Kristiana grew up with money, too, but not like, Aleksandr levels of it.
“What did you want to tell me?”
I decide to tread lightly. Maybe he has men stationed where I can’t see them, in the buildings all around the park or something. He looks like a trust baby that people might report to about things.
“Why did you want me when your problem’s with Aleksandr?” There. That’s a good question. Maybe he’ll tell me something I can use.
“My problem isn’t with Aleksandr. It’s with someone named Baba Yaga, if I have a problem with anyone, but even she did us all a huge favor.” He gestures at the bench.
I think he might be insane.
If the men following him are also crazy, that would explain their threats. No one was really in trouble, but when someone threatens you, it’s hard to realize that. Especially Mirdza. She’s been afraid of everything and everyone since the Martinš incident. Once you start running, it’s hard to stop.
“Baba Yaga? Are you serious?”
When he smiles, he looks even prettier than I realized he could. “You don’t believe me?” He sighs. “It’s a shame that the revolution I started created so many complete zealots, but when you light a match, it’s hard to control the flames entirely. They burned so many things that we really should have kept.”
Revolution? Fire? What’s he saying?
“Here’s the thing, Kristiana. I’m genuinely worried that you pose a threat to me. So while you arouse my curiosity, I think I’m probably safer just killing you.”
The idea that this fop might kill me is laughable.
Then again, he thinks I’m Kristiana. She hasn’t trained in martial arts. She hasn’t thrown a high-stakes horse race, or cut off someone’s finger when they were groping her. Luckily, that stunt made Nojus laugh—he was actually angrier at his man for doing it than he was at me for defending myself.
He always thought I’d come around to wanting him, and he wanted to keep me pure.
As if my thoughts summon them, his men show up right then—early. I’m actually impressed to see that he sent a dozen men. I’ve met all but three of them, and the ones I’d met are all reasonably competent. The others look like kids who probably tagged along to learn something.
“Who are they?” the print model asks. “I thought Aleks might be somewhere near—hoped he would be, if I’m being honest—but it didn’t occur to me that he’d hire goons to come after me.” He laughs and it’s surprisingly melodic. “What’s the point?”
“Who are you?” I ask. “Aleksandr doesn’t know.”
“I’m Leonid Ivanovich, the true heir to the Russian throne. My great, great, great, great-grandfather was locked up by the Romanovs when they stole my family’s throne. Your darling boyfriend Aleksandr was Alexei’s best friend, and Grigoriy was always following them around too. If they’d just sworn to me a hundred years ago, things wouldn’t have gotten nearly as nasty.”
Oh, no. He’s a raving lunatic.
He may be gorgeous, but I’ve learned that sometimes lunatics are the scariest people of all.
“We have a chance here to set things aright, five hundred years late, but better late than never, right?”
“Five hundred years late?”
He stands. “I’d rather kill you than deal with another bloody battle. I mean, they both sound fun, but the battle’s slower and the end result won’t change.”
