Page 58 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Her eyes move to the barred window. “I don’t know if he keeps making mistakes around us or if he’s been using us all along.”

I have no reply for her, and for once, Cara has no joke ready.

“I don’t know my brother anymore.”

13

CARA

Morning comes whether I’m ready for it or not.

Blue light fills the windows. Snow covers the ground outside. The same expensive blanket is over my legs, the same locked balcony sits beyond the reinforced glass, and I’m still in a country where I can barely ask for help. Nothing has changed.

Except everything has.

Yesterday, I fainted in front of the Pakhan, insulted him first, opened Patrick’s archive, and learned my brother may have reached into Dmitri’s life before he reached mine.

Today, one sentence keeps coming back.

Dmitri said I’ll work beside him.

That should scare me, and it does. But somewhere beneath the fear, the word leaves a small warmth I don’t know what to do with.

I sit up slowly, and the room tips only a little. My head feels heavy, my mouth feels dry, and right now, I’m not ready to face anyone after yesterday. On the table beside the bed, someone has left water, plain crackers, and a folded note in neat handwriting.

Eat before arguing.

No signature.

Mrs. Wentworth, obviously.

I stare at the note, then at the crackers.

“Everyone’s a tyrant,” I mutter and eat one anyway.

I get out of bed and feel the cold at once. I wrap myself in a shawl and pad toward the window. Beyond the bars, a silver-barked tree reaches up from the snow, and its bare top catches gold wherever the sun touches it directly. No walls around it. No one telling it where to stand.

A knock comes before I can decide whether to hate it.

A young maid enters and hands me a small card.

“Breakfast request,” she says.

This is new. I look from the card to her face, waiting for the trick.

“American breakfast.”

She nods as if I’ve passed a test and leaves.

Ten minutes later, the knock comes again. This time, she returns with a tray and a practiced smile. “Mrs. Wentworth sent American breakfast.”

She sets down scrambled eggs, buttered toast, crisp potatoes, grilled tomatoes, a small bowl of berries, and bacon. A silver pot sits beside a white cup.

“The coffee is especially brewed,” she says in a singsong voice. “Sugar on the side, for your liking.”

I stare at her. “Did Mrs. Wentworth say that exactly?”

Her smile brightens by one professional inch. “Almost exactly.”