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“Am I your prisoner then?”
“No. You’re my mistress.”
“Can I leave whenever I want?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
I ask a different one. “What about your family? Can I talk to them?”
“Yes, you’ll have to. But be careful when you do. Don’t mention the deal I made with your father.”
“Will they know who I am?”
He considers and nods. “It’s better if we’re as honest as we can be.”
“So you’ll tell them that I worked at a whorehouse?” I say it with a smile, but he looks appalled.
“Absolutely not, they will not understand.”
“Relax, I’m kidding.” I sip my drink again before putting it down on the end table. “But I do want to go back and see the girls soon.”
He hesitates, but nods. “We can do that eventually. I still have business with your father.”
I look around. “This is it then? This is my home for the foreseeable future?”
He stands and stares down at me with a mixture of anger and desire. “This might be your home for the rest of your life,” he says and walks to the door. He finishes his drink and places the empty glass down on a table. “Stay here and don’t move.”
He disappears outside.
I stare at his empty glass.
My home forever.
He’s right. If we do go through with this marriage, I’ll be stuck here in the Kremlin with these people.
With the Novalov family.
I stand and pick up one of the photos. Maxim’s younger in it, maybe two or three years younger. The girls are pretty in that extremely Russian way, while the boys are both square-jawed and serious, but very handsome. Maxim doesn’t quite fit with the other four—he looks somewhat different. Like he’s a cousin instead of a brother.
I chew on my lip and slowly place the picture down before I sink back onto the couch and curl up in a ball. I grab a blanket and drag it overtop, covering my head, and blacking out the world.
Tianna’s dead. Mira and the others are alone. There’s nothing I can do for any of them anymore.
Which is for the best. Whenever I get involved, life is so much worse.
The door bursts open. “Let me see her.” A girl’s voice.
“Emmie, no.” Maxim’s voice. The door slams shut. “She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need you—”
I sit up and let the blanket fall away.
Maxim stands with a pretty young girl with blonde hair and deep blue eyes. I recognize her from the picture. She must be his littlest sister, Emiliya.
She beams at me and seems to bubble over with excitement. Her arms are draped with clothes and she hurries over before I have a chance to adjust myself. She throws the bundle down onto the couch and sits on the chair across from me.
“I’m Emiliya,” she says. “Maxim’s sister. He’s never brought a girl home before. Did he tell you that? You’re the first. Mother’s going to flip shit—”
“Emmie,” Maxim says, voice low and warning.
