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Releasing a heavy sigh, Pyotr steps back. “Stand, Efrem. I hate seeing you down there.”
I do as he says, rising as I dare to meet his eye once more.
“Isla started to come down with something yesterday. Her fever started to spike last night. Silvia wanted to go to an after-hours pharmacy in the city to pick up the medication her doctor prescribed. I was still working, so of course, Silvi, being who she is, thought she’d just slip out for the quick errand into the city.”
My stomach plummets as I sense the direction the story’s taking before Pyotr even says the words.
“She took Isla and had the driver take them into town, but someone followed them.”
Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and my guilt intensifies. Maybe if I’d been accessible, she would have asked me to come with her.
Pyotr shakes his head. “They must have jumped our driver as soon as Silvi walked through the pharmacy door. When she came out, he was already dead, the car’s tires slashed.” Mypakhan’s eyes flash with fresh fury. “Fucking bastard held the bloody knife to Silvi’s throat.”
My heart pounds as I wait for him to continue, but the agonized look on his face makes me want to vomit. “Was she…? Did she and Isla…?” I can’t finish the sentence around the knot in my throat.
“They didn’t get hurt. I guess the pharmacist saw the guy trying to force her into his car and came out to tell her attacker that the police were on their way. The guy took off, but not before he scared the living shit out of my wife and daughter,” Pyotr finishes with a growl.
“I should have been there,” I state without a pause, the full weight of my blissful night’s consequences coming crashing down on me.
“No, but you sure asfuckshould have picked up the phone so my wife didn’t have to wait alone until I could get there. She was terrified he might come back, terrified to leave. And you were less than a mile away,” Pyotr states darkly.
I feel terrible. I owe my life to the Veles and would do anything for their family. And yet, I failed to be there when Silvia needed me. “Is she okay?” I ask, though I can scarcely get my lungs to breathe.
“She’s shaken up but okay,” he says, his temper diminishing. “This just better never happen again.”
“It won’t,” I agree vehemently.
28
DANI
“Morning, Booker,” I greet, skipping up the steps.
“Miss Richelieu,” he says with a nod.
Stepping into my house, I close the door behind me and release a sigh. I could stay with Efrem forever and not think twice about it. Sleeping in his arms was glorious, and waking up to him was even better. It’s going to take me a while to get that wake-up sex off my brain, and I smile dreamily as I head toward the kitchen, ready for some breakfast.
I do feel terrible for Efrem, though. He looked so upset about having missed Pyotr’s calls. I hope everything is alright. But after such a perfect night together, I can’t find it in me to regret what we did.
My feelings are growing faster than I imagined possible. Every moment I spend with Efrem is better than the last, every touch more meaningful, every conversation showing me new depth to his kindness, his emotional capacity. It takes my breath away.
The soft clink of a mug tapping on the kitchen counter alerts me to my parents’ presence before I walk through the door. But nothing could have prepared me for the expressions on their faces when they see me enter the room. They both stand near the coffee maker, their faces drawn and tense. Neither says a word as they turn to look at me.
“Where have you been?” my mom snaps, her cheeks coloring with anger.
“I—”
“You know what? No. I don’t even want to hear it. I already know,” she snarls. “We can just be glad I had the good sense to put you on the pill years ago.”
“Do you have nothing going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Dad piles on.
And his words are like a slap to the face because, as much as he harps on about protecting the family image and being in this as a team, he’s never cut me down with his words before. Normally, that’s my mother’s job. But today, it seems I’ve finally found the limit of his patience.
“Excuse me?” I ask, turning to him in disbelief.
“Or is it that you care nothing about me?” he pushes forward, disregarding my question.
“Of course, I care about—”
