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42
EDEN
The wroughtiron gates loom in front of the SUV, casting long shadows across the cobblestone driveway. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as I mentally prepare myself for what comes next. I step out of the SUV and gaze up at Sorokin’s castle. My knees shake the closer my feet carry me to the oak door.
The imposing door swings open, and an old servant greets me. “Welcome, Eden Zakharovna,”
I nod politely and enter. The door shuts behind me, and the lock clicks in place, echoing through the mansion. The hairs on the back of my neck rise in response. The ancient tapestries and impressive paintings I gawked at on my first visit leave me cold as I walk further into the melancholy.
I’m shown into the dining room, where Sorokin waits.
“Eden Zakharovna,” he says with an air of surprise as he rises from his seat at the head of the table. “You’ve come alone. How brave.”
“Thank you,” I reply evenly, though my stomach churns at the thought of what lies before me. “I’m a woman of my word.”
He studies me for a moment before nodding slowly, offering nothing but a cold smile.
“Do you know what might happen next?”
“I don’t,” I admit, as my voice fades.
“Very well. Follow me,” he commands, leading me through the ancient halls of his estate. As we ascend the stone staircase, memories of warnings about losing my innocence flood my mind, and I realize this is where it all ultimately leads.
We reach a small bedroom, sparsely furnished but elegant. Unlike the rest of the house, the furniture is a light beech, but the rug and drapes are deep in color and complicated in design. My eyes are drawn immediately to the modest bed in the corner of the room. It’s too small for two people. Puzzled, I glance at Sorokin.
“I …” I murmur, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I thought that?—”
“I have no lurid intentions for you, Eden Zakharovna,” he replies solemnly. “I too am a man of my word.”
Relief washes over me at the knowledge that at least I’ll be sparedthatindignity. I remind myself that this time, being here was my choice.
It hardly makes it much better.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice choked with emotion.
Sorokin pauses by a painting hanging on the wall and motions for me to join him. It depicts a young boy dressed in Renaissance clothing, whose expression is proud and solemn.
“You are more than just a pawn for Nikolai Gennadyevich,” he says.
I frown, trying to make sense of his words.
He sees my confusion and continues, “The old tsars often demanded their boyars send sons and heirs to the tsar’s household as wards. Those children would rise in status through the tsar’s name, but both sides understood the implicit threat.” He pauses for a moment to let the words sink in. “Because the tsar could always kill the child should a boyar dare to step out of line.”
A shiver shakes my spine as the implications become clear. I may be spared from certain indignities, but my presence here is to control Nikolai.
“Your unborn child is no different,” Sorokin adds, his gaze remains on the painting. “As long as Nikolai Gennadyevich knows that you and your heir are here—no matter how well-treated—you will continue providing leverage for us to ensure he falls in line.”
“Us?” I ask, unable to disguise the tremor in my voice.
“The other Bratvas,” he answers simply, as though this should have been obvious. “Nikolai Gennadyevich has proven himself unpredictable, and we cannot afford any more surprises.”
“So is that why I’m being treated so kindly? As a reminder of what he can lose if he defies your wishes?”
“Precisely,” Sorokin nods. “The best leash is one as soft as velvet, but that squeezes as tightly as any other.”
“I see,” I whisper, seeing the resignation in the eyes of the boy from the painting. “I’m his leash.”
“Correct,” he confirms without remorse. “One that will ensure Nikolai’s compliance with our demands.”
