Page 179 of Dark King Daddy

The three of us left and I realized that I was terrified.

The terror was not hot. It was not the gasping, flailing thing that panic was. It was ice. It was the deep, still cold of water beneath a frozen river—dark, patient, and absolute. It moved through me and it settled and it did not leave, and I let it stay because the cold was useful. The cold was what would bring her back.

The phone rang eleven minutes after we left Orlov Marine.

Unknown number. A New Jersey area code. I answered before the first ring finished.

“You’ll be pleased to hear Mrs. Sokolov is safe,” Oleg said. “For now.”

His voice was warm. Conversational. The voice of a man calling to confirm a dinner reservation. I heard the civility and beneath it the particular satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what he held and intended to enjoy holding it.

“Put her on.”

“Of course.”

A pause. The sound of a phone being handed—fabric rustling, the shift of weight, a brief exchange I could not parse. Then her voice.

“Daniil.”

It was hoarse. Smaller than her voice should have been. I heard the effort in it—the way she pushed the word out through a throat that had been shouting, or screaming, or both.

“Ksyusha. I’m here.”

“I tried to get away.” The words came fast. Not panicked—focused, the way she spoke when she was holding herself together by talking. “I tried. I hit him, the ublyudok. But he had a gun and there was a woman and I couldn’t —”

“Ksyusha.”

“He was going to shoot her. I couldn’t let him —”

“Baby. Listen to me.”

She breathed. I heard her breathe. The sound was ragged and shallow and I held the phone against my ear and I listened to it the way I would have listened to her heartbeat if I could have pressed my head to her chest.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“My hand. I cut it. On the car—on the seat frame, I think. It’s bleeding but it’s not deep.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes. I can hear you.”

“I love you. I’m coming.”

“I love you. Daniil—Kostya is here.”

The name landed. It landed in the cold place that had settled in my chest and it found a deeper place beneath it—a colder place, a place I had not known existed until that moment.

Kostya. The man who had stood at Mikhail’s funeral. The man who had bought Ksenia her first drawing pencils. The man who had passed the security code that got her father killed. He was in the room with her.

“Where?” I asked. “Is he in the same room as you?”

“Yes. He’s—he’s been talking. To Oleg. They know each other—”

Oleg’s voice replaced hers. Smooth, immediate, the transition performed with the ease of a man who had been listening to every word.

“That’s enough, I think. It was touching,” he said. “Very touching. Your wife is a fighter, Daniil. She caught me across the mouth. I’m still bleeding.” He paused. I heard him lick his lip. “It was impressive, actually.”

“What do you want?”