Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
My heart squeezes and to my embarrassment, my eyes water. “Thank you.”
But he’s already turning away from me. “Think nothing of it.” He’s walking toward the bathroom. “Now go to bed, Taara.”
His back is to me. I’m dismissed. I feel as if I’ve been doused with cold water. But it’s after midnight, and I don’t think my stern Russian master has any patience left for a silly girl like me. Or perhaps there’s something on his mind. If there was, I could—no.
“Good night,” I whisper, as I leave.
I never sleep well, and tonight’s no exception. I toss and turn, but don’t question whether or not something’s amiss. It’s normal for me to have disrupted sleep. I spin things in my mind, my fears about my mother’s wellbeing, whether or not I spoke out of turn to Stefan.
As usual, I sleep fitfully, until finally I wake in the early hours of the morning, somewhere deep in the shadows between midnight and sunrise. I yawn, roll over, and sigh. I might as well get up and start making Stefan’s breakfast.
But I blink in the darkness when I think I hear a door open and shut. Did I imagine that?
I always get up before Stefan and spend some of the morning in the solitude of the garden. I’ve been taking pictures of the blooming spring flowers, and making a collage of the photos at morning, midday, and dusk. I have a full week’s worth catalogued.
I sit up in bed and pad to the doorway. I open it, listening. The fire has died out. I must’ve imagined the noise. Quiet reigns over the grounds as I step outside, dressed still in my pajamas and holding my phone switched onto camera. I frown when I turn the door handle. It’s unlocked. Stefan never leaves the doors unlocked.
I quietly shut the door behind me and make my way to the garden. It’s so early, it’s hard to see my way, but I know this path by heart by now. I go to the arched walkway at the foot of the garden, surrounded by bushes and shrubbery and trees, all in early spring bloom. I use the camera on my phone, as it takes excellent shots, and I aim it to take a photo when I hear voices approaching.
I freeze, panicked.
They’re coming closer.
Oh, God. I’m not alone.
I don’t know who it is, but the men who live here are dangerous, and I don’t want to be seen. And as the voices draw closer, I can hear them, angry and hushed, and someone is whimpering.
Oh God.
Just in time, I fall to the ground and scurry behind a shade of bushes. I hope no one can see me. Thankfully, it seems the men are otherwise preoccupied.
I peak through the greenery, shocked to see Stefan and his son Nicolai dragging a man between them. They don’t speak, and I can’t make out their expressions in the darkness, but the way they’re holding the man between them scares me. He’s gagged and bound. A prisoner, then.
My breath catches in my throat when the man trips and neither of them stop. They’re yanking him along like he’s a worthless bag of garbage. Good Lord, I’m terrified. I’m shaking, my belly swirling with nausea.
I don’t need to know who he is. I don’t need to know what he did.
Stefan and Nicolai are Bratva.
They’re going to hurt this man.
Maybe even kill him.
At first, I think they’re taking him to the compound, when they turn abruptly and head straight toward me.
On hands and knees, I scramble as quietly away from them as I can, but I can still hear them. I will die if they see me. What if they think I’m spying? But the further I go trying to get away, the closer they come. I finally give up, falling to my knees behind the cover of thick shrubbery.
Oh God, oh God. I don’t know where to go or what to do. I’m shaking, trying to keep as inconspicuous as I can. Clouds shift, and moonlight catches the man’s face. His eyes are swollen, his face bloodied. He’s already been beaten. They’re bringing him here for another reason. I’m shaking so badly I’m frozen in place.
“I don’t want our brothers involved in this,” Stefan says tightly. “We have his confession. We have him on record admitting he collaborated with Myron. We know he tried to harm Marissa.”
Myron. Marissa.
Oh, God.
Marissa is Nicolai’s wife. She was sold into slavery by her traitorous father Myron. Their story has become legend among the staff. Nicolai gave up everything to hunt down the men who had her, to punish those who stole her, and bought her for his own. He joined another brotherhood under an alias. Nicolai now owes his allegiance to both the Atlanta Bratva and the Boston group. With Stefan’s help, they killed her father and every single traitor who was loyal to Myron.