Page 47 of The Beauty Who Loved Him

“Who else?”

“It’s—” Was she sober? He couldn’t tell when her words weren’t slurred. Then again, she could drink nearly a gallon of vodka in a day and still keep her eyes straight. “Christ, it’s barely seven in the morning!”

“And?”

“And! And?” Natalia spluttered.

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Vaslav wasn’t a fan of wasting his time.

“I see the doubled monthly allowance has been a good enough consideration for you to keep your distance,” Vaslav noted. “I appreciate that, Mat.”

Natalia sighed a shaky breath that cracked over the phone. “It’s not like you give me a choice. You pay my rent, every other bill, and you're the one putting anything in my bank account lately. I don’t mind being paid not to see your damn face, Vaslav.”

Oh, he knew.

She proved that once when she used his money and influence to keep him locked up in a madhouse for as long as she could. The doctors that were supposed to help spent the majority of their time keeping him locked in a room with walls made of cement bricks and his typical daily outfit included nothing more than a straitjacket, and something akin to a ball gag that kept him from shouting, biting, or anything else useful. Her only mistake was thinking no one else cared about Vaslav back then. Too bad for her, it was also what got him out.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of Mira for a month,” she complained, then.

Vaslav massaged the spot between his eyes where extra tension had taken hold as he was forced to sit through her nasally voice. Even if it was just over the phone. Except that was the point ... soon, the two of them would be face to face once more.

“I need a favor,” Vaslav said.

He wouldn’t engage her on the Mira issue. That was just one person Natalia could sink her claws into when Vaslav’s back was turned. One of the only people close to him, daily, that could feed Natalia information she wouldn’t otherwise have. Not that Mira meant to spill any of his secrets ... she just wanted to please.

Too kindhearted, really.

“I’m sorry?” Natalia’s tone changed all at once. Dripping with an oily sweetness that he knew was fake right from the start, she asked, “What exactly does that mean?”

Fuck.

She was already plotting.

He could tell.

The bitch didn’t even know anything yet, not his favor he planned to ask, the recent changes in his life, or even the fact there was a woman waiting for him just a room or so away ... naked, wet under hot water, and entirely his. All things he’d like to keep from Natalia, but Vaslav knew ... it was just a matter of time before that ended.

What would happen then?

“Yes,” Vaslav said, clearing his throat. “I said a favor. I need one.”

“Do tell.”

“A dinner.”

“What, with who?”

“Your brother,” he uttered low.

Natalia took a second to respond. “Who?”

She heard him.

Vaslav refused to repeat it.

The chirpy, almost tickled, laughter that escaped his mother made him cringe for more reasons than one. She used to do that same laugh when he’d cry as a little boy because she was being particularly mean or rough with him, even going as far as enjoying the way he’d scream out when she bent his arms back at awkward angles simply because he wouldn’t sit still when she demanded it. Every part of Natalia Pashkova was a trigger for Vaslav.

In the worst way.