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Mischa purses his lips. “I had him scout ahead,” he finally admits. “Why?”
“Because,” Sergei calls, sounding farther from the cottage. “We need to discuss what he might do when I tell him about his daughter.”
“Have you gone insane—” Mischa breaks off, glancing at me. “Don’t move,” he snarls before marching out to meet Sergei.
He shouts something. That’s all I’m aware of as I approach the doorway in their wake, despite Mischa’s warning. For some reason, I’m still swiping at my neck…but something’s wrong.
My limbs feel heavy.
Too heavy.
My hand goes limp, falling to my side, and I sway, forced to lean against the wall for balance.
I can still hear Mischa growling something to Sergei paces away.
“Mi…” I try to speak. Cry out. Anything.
But with every attempt, I make less noise.
Until the world goes silent entirely, and I fall into a sea of black.
* * *
Icome to on a firm surface. The floor? No… The plush material beneath me isn’t the harsh wood of the safe house. Have we moved already? My head throbs as I try to remember.
Mischa…
Sergei…
They were talking about Vanya—butanything after is an ominous blank. One fact I am aware of, however, is that the figure standing over me, reeking of cologne, is not Mischa.
My eyes fly open and I look up, scrambling into a crouch. Sluggish limbs rob me of any grace, and I have to brace both of my hands against the unfamiliar carpet beneath me to stay upright.
“You’ve been drugged, miss,” the man says matter-of-factly. His face is strange. He isn’t wearing the gray fatigues of Mischa or his men, either. In stark contrast, a crisp black suit differentiates him entirely. “The effects should wear off in a few minutes,” he continues. “But to minimize any risk to yourself, I suggest you relax.”
“Sergei,” I rasp while blinking to bring the rest of our surroundings into clearer focus. We’re in a room with one exit—and the man just so happens to be positioned closer to it: a door opened only to shadow.
The room itself is spacious, containing a lavish bed draped in red sheets and a wooden wardrobe. Rich burgundy wallpaper betrays a finery I’ve only seen matched in Mischa’s manor as of yet. Is this place the property Sergei mentioned? My throat aches as I cling to that possibility—it has to be.
“Do you work for him?” I ask the man. “Sergei—”
“No.” The reply comes from someone else who appears in the doorway like a phantom in a nightmare.
Chilling familiarity paralyzes me, snuffing any ounce of air from my lungs. As I suffocate, I dig my nails into my palms, hoping the pain jars me awake.
I’m dreaming.
I have to be…
“He works for me,” the newcomer says, his voice a suave, polished tenor. “And he finally fucking earned his keep. Elle.”
Dressed in black, my husband surges forward. He cut his hair in my absence, though it’s styled in its familiar elegant coif. He’s as tall as I remember, but his thin build casts less intimidation than Mischa’s bulk. It’s his bruised, swollen left hand that draws my attention the most.
And it’s his eyes that make my heart hammer unsteadily.
Amber like fire, they brim with rage.
“You’re safe,” he swears, sinking to one knee. He reaches for me only to stop short inches from my face.
Because I’m filthy, reeking of dust, and the forest, and Mischa Stepanov.
