They don’t need to say it out loud.He’s promised Matvei that I’m his.
Matvei told me as much.
And by giving me to Matvei, I assume any retribution Rafail would seek is now void, but… it’s an assumption, and those are dangerous.
“Well, well, well,” an older, raspy voice says behind me. “We have mirror images here. In all my years, son…”
I turn. Matvei shadows me like he’s my bodyguard. I guess here… heis. His hand rests possessively on the small of my back.
The elderly man who spoke is hunched over, one gnarled hand gripping the curved end of a cane. His clothes are old and faded but neatly pressed, and there’s a twinkle in his sharp eyes.
“I was good friends with twins back in the day,” he continues, nodding sagely. “But they knew each other. This? This is the kind of thing they do on reality television, don’t they?”
He studies me, then Polina, before his gaze flickers back to me.
“Do you know what we say in Russia about twins in the family?” He smiles. “Two pairs of eyes, one soul.”
I blink. My throat is tight. Polina gives me a soft smile that almost negates the look of hatred from her husband.
The old man extends his hand. “They all just call me Grandfather,” he says. “Welcome, welcome.”
Then, his eyes harden as he waves his cane at Rafail and winks at me.
“I’ll make sure my grandson behaves himself.”
Polina clutches Rafail’s arm. “So will I.”
I nod to Grandfather. “Something tells me that cane isn’t just a prop.”
Someone snorts behind me, and another laugh follows. Sometimes, I think before I speak. Most of the time, Idon’t.
A door in the corner of the room bursts open, revealing a bustling kitchen behind it. The air fills with the fragrant scent of garlic and onions, and my stomach twists with hunger.
A tall, fit woman with dark hair pulled into a merciless ponytail strides in, eyes warm as they land on me.Yana.And the youngest Kopolov sister, Zoya, follows close behind.
“You’re Yana and Zoya,” I say, nodding. “So nice to finally meet you.”
Yana smiles, extending her hand.
“That’s Semyon and his wife, Anya,” Matvei murmurs, nodding to a stern-looking man a bit older than Matvei with dark hair and glasses. He stands by the bar, his expression unreadable as he glances my way. His wife, the beautiful, auburn-haired Anya, stands beside him, murmuring something under her breath—lips barely moving.
Whatever it is, Semyon nods, then gives me a forced smile.
So yeah, these men like to get married.
The table is set beautifully—large platters of fresh bread, dishes of butter, glasses of water and wine beside each plate, and several sets of silverware. Zoya flits about the table, adjusting things.
“We don’t always eat this formally,” Zoya says, almost apologetically. “Most of the time, we just sit at the kitchen table. But we wanted to put on a good spread for you.”
A harsh voice speaks behind us. The shift in Matvei’s posture is instantaneous. “Why? For the woman who has Matvei acting like a madman.”
I turn, and my stomach drops as he hisses in a breath and curses.
No.
His parents.
“I thought they weren’t coming,” I whisper to him.
