I wake up with a start, the morning light shining softly on my bed.
The other side of the mattress is empty, but the indentation is still there, along with the faint, lingering scent of him. My skin still feels sensitive, my mind immediately racing back to the bedroom and the missing lace currently tucked away in Mikhail’s pocket.
I really need to stop thinking about his hands. Or his mouth. Or the fact that he was an aspiring astronaut. It’s making me soft, and soft is how you get killed in New York.
I dress quickly in black leggings and a compression top. I need to move. I need to burn off the nervous energy before I vibrate right out of my skin. When I head downstairs, I don't find Mikhail. Instead, I find Kira.
She’s sitting in the sunroom, looking out at the gardens with a cup of tea in her hands. She’s dressed simply in jeans and a soft sweater looking every bit a woman who doesn't belong in this world, yet somehow manages to hold the Pakhan's heart in her palm.
Here goes nothing. Time to eat some humble pie. I hope it doesn't taste like dirt.
"Kira," I say, stepping into the room.
She turns, her green eyes wary but not hostile. "Irina. I didn't think you’d be up this early after last night. Calina told me about dinner."
"The Morozov estate isn't exactly conducive to sleeping in," I mutter, leaning against the doorframe. I take a breath, my pride fighting me every inch of the way. "Look, about before… I was a bitch. A massive, entitled one."
Kira sets her tea down, her expression softening just a fraction. "You were a girl being traded like a stock option, Irina. I think a little lashing out was expected."
"No, I was mean because I could be. Because I thought I was better than you," I say, walking further into the room. "I was wrong. You got out. You found a way to make Artyom see you as a person. I'm just trying to figure out how to survive the brother who likes to set things on fire."
Kira watches me for a long beat, then gestures to the chair across from her. "Mikhail isn't Artyom, but he is his own person and I’m sure once you figure him out… you really look deep within him, you will find him out and I’m sure then everything will make sense."
"He makes me feel like I'm losing my mind," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.Great. Tell the Pakhan's wife your deepest fears. Real smart, Ira." It’s like he sees right through the 'princess' act to the parts of me I haven't looked at in ten years. It frightens me."
"That’s because he isn't looking for the princess," Kira says. "He’s looking for the girl who climbed out of a window. He likes the fight, Irina. Mikhail never picks the easy path. In the past, he deliberately picked fights with things that could destroy him just to see if he was tough enough to survive them."
"He’s doing a great job of destroying himself then," I mutter, checking the laces on my sneakers. "I’m going for a run. Do you want to come? I could use the company."
Kira laughs, a genuine, warm sound. "I’m a nurse, Irina. I spend twelve hours a day on my feet. My idea of a 'run' is walking from the sofa to the fridge. Thanks though. But take a guard. Artyom said things are… unsettled today."
"Always," I sigh.
I head out to the grounds. A guard I recognize, a tall, silent man named Stefan trails ten paces behind me. I don't argue.
I run until my lungs burn and my legs feel like lead. I think about the message on the burner phone. I need to see Mikhail before I go. I need to check the temperature of the house, to make sure he’s occupied enough today for me to slip away.
I don’t see him for most of the day. In the evening, though, I notice something is different. The air is heavy, the servants moving with their heads down, scurrying away from the west wing.
The cellar.
That must be my husband. People running from a place, he must be in there.
He’s in the cellar.
My feet move toward the basement stairs. I tell myself it’s nothing, I'm just exploring the ground but deep down, I know it’s far from that.
The smell hits me halfway down. It’s not just the damp stone of the basement. It’s copper. Thick, cloying, and unmistakable.
Blood. Lots of it.
I reach the heavy steel door at the end of the hall. It’s slightly ajar. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look. But I lean in anyway.
The room is lit by a single, harsh bulb dangling from the ceiling. In the center, tied to a heavy wooden chair, is the man from the warehouse. Or what’s left of him.
He’s a mess of raw meat and white bone. His shirt has been stripped away, his chest a map of jagged slices that are weeping red onto the concrete floor. One of his ears is missing, the side of his head just a dark, wet hole.
Mikhail is standing in front of him. He’s discarded his shirt, his back to me. His skin is slick with sweat and splattered with crimson. He looks like a demon carved from marble and gore. He’s holding a pair of heavy pliers in one hand and a serrated hunting knife in the other.
