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13
WREN
I’m walking through the door when I hear a loud thud from the upstairs penthouse. Aleks’s cough feels almost like it was intentionally timed to try to cover up the sound.
I stop short in the threshold of the door. “What was that?”
The answer comes from Dmitri, who rises smoothly and beckons me into his office. “I’m having some renovations done on the penthouse. Just the construction workers fucking up my instructions.”
His explanation is plausible enough—so why is it that Aleks looks away as though there’s something to hide? I try not to give in to suspicion. I have enough to deal with without adding additional mysteries to my plate.
The door clicks shut behind me and I step into Dmitri’s office. “How are you feeling?” he asks in an emotionless rumble.
I square my jaw. “Confused. Frustrated. Blindsided.”
“So physically fine then?”
“Why on earth would you arrange for those tabloid hacks to photograph us at the Lamaze class? What purpose did that serve?”
He fixes me with a mildly curious gaze. “Did you come across one of their stories?”
“I don’t read that trash. But Syrah does.”
“Ah.”
“That’s all you have to say? ‘Ah’?”
He steeples his fingers together and sits back in his chair, jaw clenched every bit as tight as mine. “I need to keep them guessing, Wren. If my enemies are confused, it makes it harder for them to come to me. At us.”
Frowning, I venture forward. His desk is still between us and that gives me some security. Probably of the false variety. “Your enemies… You’re referring to Cian? Or Vittorio?”
“Both. Others. All of them.”
I realize I’m angry at the same time that I realize that Dmitri’s not the one I’m angry at. “Vittorio really didn’t come to her funeral?”
Dmitri’s teeth mash together. “It was better he didn’t. The fucker didn’t love Bee, didn’t mourn Bee. He didn’t deserve to be at her funeral.”
My head droops like a dying flower. “I should have been there.”
My eyes stay downcast toward the carpet, but I can feel Dmitri get up and walk towards me. His presence, as always, engulfs me without him having to lift a finger. Even now, like always, I’m still not sure whether I want to lose myself in it or run screaming from it.
“She wouldn’t have wanted you crying over her body, Wren. She would have wanted us to get drunk and swap stupid stories about her.”
The smile breaks through my unshed tears. “Then I would have cried just to spite her.”
His fingers graze across my cheek, so damn gently, and yet he leaves a trail of heat behind. “Why don’t you sit down?”
I want to—but I also don’t want to move out from underneath his touch. It feels good, this dangerous proximity. Except when I lift my eyes, his face is blurry for a second.
“Wren?”
He grabs me as I tumble forward. I try to straighten up but that only causes me to trip harder. “S-sorry,” I say quickly. “I don’t know what happened…”
“Sit down,” he orders firmly. “Are you feeling light-headed?”
“A little…”
I feel like an idiot as he leads me to a chair and sits me down like I’m a child. All of a sudden, I’m intensely aware of my massive stomach, my bloated calves, my sallow skin and puffy eyes.
