Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
The truth is, I’ve barely interacted with him in recent days, and I’ve missed it. I’ve missed our conversations, his unwavering focus on me… even the way he makes me feel like a mouse being toyed with by a scary-hot cat. Of course, I can’t have him know this. Not when I still have a shred of hope that someday my life will go back to normal—a normal that won’t involve dangerous men who torture and kill.
Taking a breath, I launch right into it. “Why was she here? Who is she?”
He’s silent for a few moments, studying me in that intense way of his while the cognac goes untouched in his hand. “She’s an asset,” he finally says. “My brother Valery sent her over when I explained your situation.”
My heart leaps, and my mouth goes dry. After my conversation with Alina, I wondered if this might be the case, but to hear it confirmed so bluntly… Shakily, I reach for my cognac and take a sip, letting it light a path of fire down my esophagus. “What kind of asset?” I ask when the urge to cough subsides.
“Originally, the government kind. Now ours.”
A spy then, or some other kind of operative—and not nearly as young as I thought if she has this kind of background. I suppose I can see it. If I’d met Masha on the street, I would’ve never suspected her of being any sort of “asset,” but that’s probably the point. That bubbly, youthful exterior makes for an effective mask.
Before I can ask what exactly her role is in my situation, Nikolai speaks again. “Zaychik…” His tone is once more disconcertingly gentle. “It’s confirmed. Bransford is your biological father.”
My heart rate spikes further, a chill prickling the skin on my arms. “You mean…”
“Masha obtained a DNA sample from Bransford. It matches yours.”
Matches mine. My stomach twists nauseatingly, the chill spreading to engulf the rest of my body. I’ve known this had to be the case ever since Nikolai told me what his older brother had uncovered, but a part of me must’ve been still holding out a sliver of hope.
A hope that’s now crushed and ground to dust.
“Why did you—” I stop to clear the hoarseness in my throat. “Why did you want to confirm it?”
I don’t want to think about how this Masha obtained Bransford’s sample, or mine. Actually, the latter must’ve been easy: my toothbrush, a few loose hairs on my pillow, a cup I drank from… A presidential candidate with all the accompanying security, though—
“Because I needed to be certain.”
I blink, realizing I’ve let my thoughts wander away from the key question. “But why? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful.” At least I think I am. Is it better to know you’re the offspring of a murdering rapist, or to just suspect it strongly?
Nikolai sets his glass down, the liquid inside still untouched. “I promised to protect you, zaychik.”
The chill ripples over me again, my mind venturing down a path I wish it wouldn’t go. “You did. You have. I’m safe here, aren’t I?” At least from Bransford.
He leans forward, his big, warm palms covering my frozen hands. “You are. And you’ll be even safer once he’s no longer a threat to you.”
I stare into his hypnotic irises, that rich, deep gold speckled with green. “Not a threat how?” I’ve avoided thinking about the future for this very reason: because I can’t imagine one where Bransford won’t be a threat. Like a turtle, I’ve been content to hide inside my shell, taking it one day, one hour, at a time, all the while telling myself that eventually, I’ll get it figured out and bring Mom’s murderer to justice.
Not Nikolai, though. He hasn’t been hiding from reality—he’s been planning. And it’s the nature of those plans that makes icy fingers dance down my spine.
I have a feeling Nikolai’s idea of justice differs drastically from mine.
He smiles as if I were a naïve child. “You don’t need to worry, zaychik. I’m handling it.”
For a brief, cowardly moment, I’m tempted to do just that: not worry, leave the matter in his capable, ruthless hands… the ones holding mine so possessively, so gently.
The same hands that had taken two lives in front of me without hesitation.
It’s that memory, that vivid recollection of the tortured assassin’s screams, that decides it for me. I may have developed a knack for avoiding reality, but even I can’t close my eyes and pretend to be blind.
“What are you going to do to him?” My voice is as unsteady as my pulse. “Nikolai, please, I have to know. What are you going to do?”
The tiny muscles around his eyes tighten—the only change in his expression. “Nothing he doesn’t deserve.”
I draw back, pulling my hands out of his grasp. “You can’t kill him.”