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Cleo put down her knife, but I waved her off. “I’ll get it.”
Dragging my tired body to the door, I opened it wide. And wished I hadn’t.
“Hello, daughter.”
“Aleksándr.” My voice came out strangled, my skin feeling itchy.
He walked inside, his two men following. He didn’t look at me, just took in the foyer. “Where is your husband?”
I closed the door behind them. “He’s at work. Can I offer you a drink?”
He didn’t answer; instead, his gaze fell to my bare feet.
I shrank under his disapproving frown, taking a step back. “Cleo made cookies. Would you like one?”
Again, he didn’t answer, just raised a brow. I hated it when he did that. It also meant something bad was coming my way.
“I see your husband is letting you run wild.” He walked around the entrance hall, gazing into the empty rooms. One of his men, Leonid, followed; the other, Anatoly, stayed by the door.
They were as cruel as they were dumb. They followed Aleksándr’s every command without question. I usually stayed clear of them. The thought of having them in my house made a cold sweat break out on my skin.
“Where is your furniture? This does not look befitting for a Volkov.”
“I’m an Olysses now.”
His cruel gaze snapped to me for the first time since he’d entered, hitting me like a physical blow. “Your husband also doesn’t seem to mind your smart mouth.”
I lowered my head in submission. “I apologize. We’re redecorating.”
He kept walking, making his way to the kitchen. Cleo looked up from where she was arranging strawberries on top of a cake. “Wonderful, we have guests. Just in time for cake.”
When all she received in return was a hard stare from Aleksándr, her smile turned brittle, and she turned back to her cake.
I rounded the kitchen counter, fumbling with the door to the cupboard. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes.”
I prayed he wouldn’t care that we didn’t have Polugar vodka. The only other brand he drank was Russo-Baltique, but a bottle cost over a million dollars. Not something I’d have sitting in my cupboard.
There was also the little fact that I was underage. Not that there weren’t ways for me to buy liquor.
I pulled out the cheap vodka Cleo had bought to use in her sauces and marinades and poured it in a water glass. We had no shot glasses—for the aforementioned reason—so this would have to do.
Aleksándr’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched me pour his drink. I didn’t offer anything to his henchmen, preferring to ignore them altogether. And if Aleksándr wanted me to get them a drink, he would say so.
He peered at the drink I’d set in front of him, then narrowed his eyes at me. “Why are you doing the work you pay staff to do? You’re a Volkov. We don’t serve drinks. And we definitely don’t give our guests cheap vodka.”
Flinching, I shot an apologetic look at a wide-eyed Cleo. “I already told you. I’m an Olysses now.”
He stood up, and my whole body tensed. I hated myself for the reaction, but it was a reflex to his anger. It didn’t go unnoticed, and a cruel smile spread over his face. “You know why I came. Yet you still stand there, resembling a coat hanger instead of telling me what I want to hear.”
“I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Not acceptable. You have three days.”
He walked out, his heavy steps echoing loudly through the empty house. With my head down, I followed him in silence.
He waited in front of the door until Anatoly opened it. A sharp pain on my cheek ripped me out of my study of the tiles. Dragging my attention away from the floor, I faced Aleksándr, his cold, dead eyes pinned on me. “Don’t make me come here again.”
