"What?"
"That. Just good. I bare my soul and you say good like I've just delivered quarterly earnings."
Despite the rage still burning in my blood, my chest loosened. "I’m trying."
"Try with more syllables."
"I’m honored that you’re trying to believe me."
She considered this, tears still caught on her lashes. "Better. Very Russian, but better."
And then reality hit me. Soon, I had to have a wedding. All because of a lie I'd told twelve men who would use it against me the second it cracked. I'd planned to explain everything to Maeve, to ask her to stand beside me while I played politics with another omega's name.
Looking at the scar on her neck, at the way she'd flinched from her own skin—
I couldn't hurt her again. And she wasn't ready to be paraded in front of the council. I glanced out of the window.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I would rather lose the Bratva than make her feel used again.
“Mmm.”
A knock at the door. "Artem. The doctor is here,” Gregor said.
I pressed a kiss to Maeve's forehead. "Let him check you and Mac. I have something to handle. I'll be back."
The cottage sat at the far edge of the grounds behind a thick copse of oaks.
It had housed a groundskeeper once. Now it housed what powerful families called a guest until the locks said otherwise.
The path was narrow and damp, lined with ferns and old roots pushing through gravel. The main house vanished after the first bend, its lights reduced to a pale glow through branches. Wet earth, oak leaves, the metallic tang of the guards stationed in the shadows. Surrey didn't bare its teeth like Moscow. It smiled with gardens and warm windows while men with guns stood behind hedges.
Maeve would notice that eventually. She noticed everything eventually.
Blade was on the front porch with a cigarette. He nodded as I approached.
Inside, Killian sat at the small dining table cleaning a sidearm. Opposite him, wrapped in a blanket and staring into a mug like it might contain answers, sat Mary McCarthy.
She looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and terrified. This was not the girl with the smart mouth who'd asked Blade if all Russians were born planning invasions.
"Mary."
She flinched. "Am I going home?"
"Not exactly."
She pushed her shoulders back. McCarthy through and through. "What does that mean?"
I sat across from her. "My father is dead. There's a fight for succession. To secure my seat, I told the council I'd secured the McCarthy alliance." I paused. "I told them I was marrying you."
The mug hit the table. Tea sloshed over the rim. "No. You have… you have an omega. Everyone talks. They say you found your fated—"
"It would be fake. A pretend ceremony. A piece of paper we’ll forge. And very real pictures. In exchange, I'll guarantee your freedom. New identity, new passport, enough money to go wherever you want. Your father will never find you."
Her hands were shaking. But she was a McCarthy, and the gears were turning behind her eyes. Weighing. Calculating.
"Why not her?" she whispered. "Your omega. Why not just marry her?"
