I assume Farah is speaking to me until the scrape of a chair bellows across the room. With his chin tucked into his chest and his sneer on the down low, the bearded man exits the dining room via a door on my left.
Farah waits for the door he rushed through to stop swinging before returning her eyes to mine. They’re not glistening with the amused twinkle I often saw when I was little. They’re filled with irritation more than anything. “Why are you here, serving?”
I’m about to speak up when I’m interrupted for the second time this evening. “Because I gave her two choices. She either serves my men food or. . .” Asher’s silence speaks volumes.
Farah’s eyes snap to her son as quickly as mine. He is seated at the very end of the table, meaning he had a prime view of proceedings the entire time. I don’t know whether to be sickened by his lack of assistance or grateful. I don’t want to owe him anything, but the fact he sat by and watched me be rough-handled reveals he’s stepped far away from the little boy who used to play hide and seek with Vaughn and me while our parents talked shop.
“Zariah was not brought here as a plaything, Asher. She is to be your wife.”
The lack of commotion from the forty-plus pairs of eyes watching our exchange exposes they’re not shocked by Farah’s disclosure, although I am certain they’re stunned by my disheveled appearance. I can’t say I blame them. I look like a wreck.
After shifting her focus back to me, Farah points to the now vacant spot in front of me. “Put down the soup.”
I jump to the command in her voice, only startling when Asher growls, “If you do, our terms will be renegotiated.”
I freeze, truly unsure who to listen to. Farah is Asher’s mother, but she doesn’t outrank her son. And I don’t want to renegotiate my terms with Asher. He made it abundantly clear this morning that I won’t like the terms he brings forward the second time around.
The woman I’ve admired for years shines in Farah’s eyes when she adds to her request that I put down the appetizer I’m serving by inviting me to join her at the other end of the table. I can see the silent affirmation in her eyes, the one that says if I don’t reveal my backbone now, I’ll never get the chance, but she’s not seeing the entire picture. Asher isn’t just angry he’s being forced to marry me. He thinks I orchestrated Dominique’s demise. I don’t need more reasons to piss him off. He already has plenty.
My voice is weak when I ask the man on my right, “Would you like one scoop or two?”
The disappointment in Farah’s eyes cuts through me like a knife, but it has nothing on the fury that rages through me from Asher’s smug grin. He thinks he won. I’m inclined to believe him.
“If you serve these men now, you’ll serve them for the rest of your life. Is that what you want, Zariah? The girl I remember wished to walk in her mother’s footsteps; you won’t do that if you don’t stand up for yourself.”
“I want to live.” My words are barely whispers, so I doubt Farah can hear them, but it felt good expressing them. That’s the only reason I’m agreeing to Asher’s terms, because my will to live has exceeded my desire to die—for now.
My eyes rocket up when Farah replies, “Then live. Show them your life is worth fighting for. Make them see that no matter what they do or say to you, your spirit will never break.” She slaps her hand on the table, rattling the dishware. “You are Zariah Volkov, daughter of Ari Volkov, and soon-to-be wife of Asher Yury. You do not bow for anyone.” She scans the room brimming with men. “Let alonevyperduschstoo stupid to see your wealth.”
Her wrath is for her son. . . although some of the men seem to miss that fact.
When one stands to his feet in a hurry, I take a step back. His fury is uncontained with clenched fists and a tight jaw. He looks seconds from detonating, but instead of his anger being projected at me, he has Farah in his sights.
The man attempts to suspend his hand mid-air when Asher snarls, “Better make it good, because that slap is the last thing you’ll ever do,” but it does him no good.
The back of his hand barely scrapes Farah’s cheek, but the frenzy in Asher’s eyes makes it seem so much more. He storms our way, his gun removed from the harness on his hip before I secure half a breath. I blink three times when, in two quick movements, he pins the man to the ground by his throat. When he digs the barrel of his gun into his left eye, I assume he is issuing the man a threat, that his constant plea for forgiveness will see him carted out of here with perhaps a black eye or possibly a broken nose. I had no inkling his life would be claimed in front of me and forty-plus witnesses.
Asher fires one shot directly into the eye his gun is pinching before popping another bullet between his brows. Because he is low to the ground, none of the guests are subjected to the brain matter coating Asher’s boots and face. Soup, on the other hand, it splashes up their pants cuffs and dots their shoes with a vibrant red slosh when the ceramic dish I’m holding crashes to the floor so I can muffle my scream. I’ve seen many horrible things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve witnessed a murder without a morsel of remorse crossing the executioner’s features.
When Asher’s eyes lift to mine, unappreciative that his clothes are covered with steaming hot borscht,stifling my screams is the least of my problems. He’s angry, ropeable, and moments from claiming his second life in under a minute, and once again, all of his fury is devoted to me.
I hate myself for running. I hate that I’m acting so cowardly, I’d rather run than face the consequences of my actions head on, but when you’re facing a battle you’ll never win, sometimes the best thing you can do is run.
And that’s what I’m doing. I’m running.
I run and run and run. Past Eda and Farah watching me with wide eyes, down the halls I charged through earlier when I was outrunning Asher for the first time, and through the door I slammed shut in the wee hours of this morning, except this time, there’s no lock for me to latch, and Asher is chasing me down instead of letting me flee without prosecution.
When Asher barges through the door with more force than he used to kick it down, I snatch a letter opener off his desk and brace it in front of my body. I’m shaking like a leaf, and my eyes are brimming with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Farah was right. I’m stronger than the woman I’ve been portraying the past few days.
Asher’s eyes drop to the letter opener at the same time his lips curl into a snarl. “Put it down.”
Tears threaten to spill down my face when I shake my head.
His eyes are fixated on the weapon I’m brandishing, but he must hear my non-verbal reply. “I’m not playing, Zariah, put it down!”
When he takes a step closer to me, I slice the letter opener through the air. I aim for his chest, but end up slicing his forearm instead. My hit barely scratches him, but it doubles the anger firing in his icy blue gaze.
With a growl, he pushes off his feet and charges my way. He tackles me onto his bed, expelling the wind from my lungs as quickly as my skin heats with excitement. Although his hit knocks me sideways, I maintain my grip on my instrument of choice. I can’t use it because he has my wrist pinned above my head, but it feels good knowing it’s still in my possession.
