Page 19 of Lord of the Underworld

"Thank fuck." He reattaches the zipline, and we go home.

***

Yebat' - Russian word for fuck, noun or verb

Brat - Russian word for brother.

Chapter Ten

In which Oksana meets the Morozov cousins, who bring chaos, champagne, and companionship.

Oksana…

We're on Day Five of the Turgenev Wedding Death March.

I have rarely felt so useless.

Vadim hasn't been back, although I feel like I've dreamt of him almost every night. He wasn't terrifying in the dreams, unlike the way he seems to be in real life, when people shudder and avoid his eyes. Maks said he had seen Vadim coming out of his father's mansion the day before, and that a group of people walking down the sidewalk actually scampered across the street to avoid him while he was still on the front steps.

The wedding coordinator Mother hired is a sharp, unkind man named Mr. Maurice. He's French, speaks Russian with an atrocious accent and French with an even worse one, which perplexes me. His dark hair is fiercely slicked back, and he wears his suits cut so sharply that I'm surprised his trouser pleats don't slice into the upholstery.

Mr. Maurice is taking my mother and me down to The Royal Couturier Shop today. This family has created wedding gowns, magnificent suits and even royal robes all over Europe for the obscenely wealthy and powerful for over two hundred years. The shop is coated in blood red silk wallpaper with gold-gilded furniture and heavy tapestries across the windows. It's elegant and subdued and would make a great funeral parlor.

Standing in the dressing room with my mother, I'm feeling terribly lonely, dismally eyeing a long rack of at least twenty dresses.

"That's a lot of dresses," I tell Mr. Maurice.

"That is the first rack," he says, checking his phone. "The other three will be here soon."

Rubbing the back of my neck, I stare at the relentless line of taffeta, silk, chiffon and- are those diamonds on one skirt? "I'm certain I can find something in this first rack," I say hopefully.

"You find?" Mr. Maurice looks up from his phone to frown at me.

Oh.

I give a side eye to Mother, who looks distinctly apologetic while avoiding my gaze. "I'm not picking my own dress, then."

"Grand Dieu, non!" He looks shocked. “There is a theme, Miss Vasiliev. A vision. And I will create it around you. Now go strip down to your underwear in the dressing room. The manager will bring you the first dress."

It is then that I reconsider the possibility of having my own charity help me disappear.

"There she is!"

That voice, I know it. "Iris Morozova? Is it really you?" I turn around, and there she is, with a huge smile and her arms swept out to hug me.

"I brought reinforcements," she whispers into my ear. "I had a feeling the minute I heard who was involved -" she casts a glance at an affronted Mr. Maurice, "that this was not going to be a pleasant experience."

"I wasn't sure if any of you could come," I say. "It was only a week's notice."

"You are family now," she says simply, as if that is reason enough. "You're going to be a Turgenev; we're going to be your cousins." She turns around, flinging a hand out to the amused group of girls eyeing the wedding gowns. "You remember Caroline, of course, Nikandr Morozov's wife." Caroline gives me a warm smile and a wave.

"This is my twin sister, Rose." There is no question of that. She's identical to Iris. Same amber eyes, with the same mischievous glint.

"It's so nice to meet you, Rose," I say.

"And this is Dasha. My Andrey's little sister." Dasha has burgundy-red hair, and clearly, a temperament to match.

"Of course, we'd be here," Dasha says happily. "Cousins have to stick together. Female cousins, especially. We're surrounded by officious, controlling men who think they know everything."