Page 1 of Then We Shatter

Prologue

Killian

There are a few things you should know about me.

Firstly, I’m dead. Deal with it.

Secondly, I can love who I damn well please. If you don’t like Katarina, that sounds like a you problem. I know her better than anyone and I fucking love that woman. I told her she’d be the death of me. But don’t go feeling sorry for me. I’d die for Katarina Barkov a thousand times. In this world and the next.

Oh, and finally, and most importantly, I’m not fucking short.

Chapter 1

Katarina

Now

“Would it kill you to smile?”

I spear a bitesize piece of steak with my plastic fork before casting my gaze down the twenty-foot dining table to the only other person joining me for dinner. Chewing on the pre-cut meat, I offer a practiced neutral expression. Emotions are a weakness the Bratva just love to exploit, their pakhan most of all. I give the old man nothing.

Vasili Barkov’s wrinkles scrunch up his dark, soulless eyes. “I sometimes think I trained you too well, malenkaya plemyannitsa.” Little niece.

“You reap what you sow, Uncle,” I reply in English, even though there are no English speakers within hundreds of miles of this desolate place.

Silverware rattles against porcelain as Vasili sets down his fork. His head dips briefly as he adjusts his perfectly starched white cuffs beneath his dark blue Armani suit. The top of his bald head catches the light from the chandelier as he heaves out a bored sigh. “Is that a threat, Katarina?” he asks, reverting us back to Russian.

When I shrug, my spaghetti strap slips off my shoulder. “Just an observation,” I reply, fixing my thin cotton dress as I glance out at the fat snowflakes floating past the dining hall’s arched stone windows.

The landscape around the pakhan’s Siberian stronghold is bleak. Trees are winter-bare and if I could see beyond the current blizzard, I wouldn’t see much. The gothic-style house is protected by high fences and has a vast underground basement that hides enough hardware and supplies to sustain a small army for months, should the need arise.

Beyond my uncle’s country estate, the land is flat and barren. Barren by design. There are no trees or shrubs to disrupt the view or provide cover for anyone foolish enough to attempt to get in. Or out.

I draw my focus back to my present company and the two guards stationed on opposite sides of the room. They’re amongst the select few who’ve had the pleasure of my company during my enforced exile. I arch an eyebrow at Vlad, whose arm must surely be aching as he keeps his taser gun trained on me. I’m currently armed with nothing more dangerous than a plastic fork. No knife. What the hell does he think I’m going to do?

I roll my bare feet from toe to heel over the timbered floor to stop them going numb with the cold. It’s below zero outside and the house is far too cavernous to heat effectively. Everyone else is wearing layers, but not me. It’s safe to say I’d be dead in an hour if I tried to brave the outdoors.

“Is there a reason for your visit?” I ask my uncle as I fan my long, raven hair across my shoulders. It falls over my back like a silken cloak and keeps away the chill. “Is it Christmas so soon?”

It’s a genuine question. I couldn’t say for sure how long I’ve been held captive. Until my uncle’s arrival yesterday, I’d been confined to a windowless bedroom with no distractions except the sound of my deep sighs and too-loud thoughts.

I’ve endured weeks of sitting with my emotions, reliving all twenty-one years of my pitiful existence in exquisite detail. I’ve survived unimaginable horrors in my lifetime, but there have been moments of joy too, like the summer I spent here when I was seventeen. Unlike my current isolation, I’d been joined by other recruits to the Bratva’s army. It was the first time I’d been allowed to make friends and those young women had become my sestras. Sisters.

Recalling those snatches of happiness are like tiny daggers to my shriveled heart, but the pain is nothing compared to the gut-wrenching flashbacks of my recent time in Chicago. I’ve been trained to deal with physical torture, but what happened there almost broke me. Almost. Which is why I don’t dare dwell on it.

The steak knife in Vasili’s hand glints as he sets it down on his plate. “Christmas is three weeks away,” he says.

Which means I’ve been trapped here for two months. Good to know.

Vasili reaches for the bottle of champagne that’s been waiting on ice. His smile is just as chilling. At sixty-eight, he’s kept himself in annoyingly good health. His white hair has receded to the point of surrender, but with broad shoulders, he can easily match the strength of men half his age.

“Tonight is your last night under this roof, Katarina. Worthy of a celebration, don’t you think?”

I refuse to ask the obvious question. He’ll tell me my fate soon enough. I watch him coolly as he removes the foil from the champagne bottle and loosens the wire cage. Gripping the cork, he twists the bottle with ease. There’s a pathetic, controlled pop and only a dribble of foam escapes.

Before Vasili can get up to fill my paper cup, I rise to my feet. Vlad and the other guard Alexei, stiffen, but Vasili raises a hand and I’m not immediately hit with 50,000 volts.

As I stroll down the length of the table, my too-short fingernails trail over polished mahogany and my gaze sweeps casually across the dining hall. There are so many weapons within easy reach, and that’s discounting the firearms the guards and Vasili are carrying. There are curtain ties that would make passable garrotes to squeeze the last breath out of my uncle, heavy chair legs that could be fashioned into a club to bludgeon him to death, and plenty of glass and porcelain that would provide sharp edges to slice his throat.