Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 138217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Nodding, she stood where she was with her gut churning as he drove the vehicle inside. It took every inch of courage she possessed to make her feet move to the gate, but she couldn’t cross the boundary between the outside world and whatever lay beyond.
Getting out of the vehicle on the other side, Yakov jogged back to her . . . and then he held out his hand. “Take your time, pchelka. This place isn’t going anywhere.”
“Did you just call me a little bee?” It came out a startled question, her voice strangled with a fear that infuriated her. She’d fought this, had won. She’d refused to be scared anymore, and in so doing, she’d stolen her grandfather’s power.
A slow smile by the bear in front of her, followed by a wink. “You must’ve misheard . . . zaichik.”
It had been rabbit . . . no, little hare, that time.
Bears.
And somehow, her fingers were touching his, and then she was sliding her hand into his and gripping with bruising strength as she forced her feet to cross the invisible dividing line between the outside and . . . this terrible, dark place behind heavy metal gates.
She would not let a long-dead monster defeat her.
Yakov’s body so close to her, his breath brushing her earlobe as he said, “Not mishonok, I think. Not for a woman with a spine so fucking strong.”
Mouse, she translated inside her head. He refused to call her a mouse, even in jest. And . . . it meant something. As it meant something that he stood there with her hand locked around the rough warmth of his until she could make herself let go. Even then, he ran his knuckles over her back in an act of comfort before he turned to close the gate.
The sound of the deadbolts sliding home made her flinch.
“You’re doing great, Thela.” A murmur far too close to her, the heat of his body pressing against her chilled skin.
Thela. Not Theo. He’d altered her name in a way that her language lessons told her was familiar, friendly. Such a Russian thing to do. The implied acceptance left her shaken. “What do your friends call you?”
“Yasha,” he said. “My mother calls me Yakov Mayakovskevich Stepyrev when she’s about to give me a scolding, but otherwise, it’s Yashka. My babushka Quyen calls me Mischief Bear One. You can call me Gorgeous.”
No one in her entire life had ever spoken to her this way. So open and warm and amused. And that was when she realized she was gripping his hand again, and he was letting her. “How about Trouble?” she shoved out past the cold fear that crushed her throat with a skeletal hand.
Because Theo wasn’t about to surrender to evil.
Not then. Not now. Not fucking ever.
A grin that revealed those dimples that were weapons of bearish distraction—and the antithesis of evil. “You honor me.” He did a half bow before rising to squeeze her hand. “You ready to move on, pchelka?”
She’d have to ask him why little bee, but for right now, she jerked her head in a yes, ready to face this head-on. The worst of it wasn’t the physical sensations of fear that crawled over her skin and blocked her breathing, it was that she didn’t know why this place was a cauldron of nightmare for her—if that flashback by the gate had been a memory, she didn’t have the rest.
I won after all, whispered the ghost of her grandfather.
Theo bared her teeth and slapped away the phantom. No, he didn’t get to come back from the dead, didn’t get to taunt her. He got to stay in pieces so small that his remains hadn’t even filled a box of such trivial size that a child could’ve carried it with ease.
“Yes,” she said to Yakov in a voice as hard as stone, “let’s go.” But before she could take a step forward, her eyes fixed on a crack, over which grew green moss.
Shifting her gaze, she looked further down what should’ve been a pristine drive, but while there weren’t an enormous number of cracks or potholes, there were more than there should’ve been. And a lot of foliage had begun to creep onto the asphalt.
“This place must’ve been heavily planted to begin with,” she murmured with a frown, “which is unusual in a Psy facility, but now it looks totally out of control.” At last, finding her footing in the practical, she made her fingers let go of his.
Her digits cramped, used to the shape of him.
“Planting would’ve been to ensure privacy.” Yakov hunkered down beside her, touched the growth she’d seen. “This stuff is fairly quick growing, but some of the other plants . . .” He looked up, eyes narrowed. “Two, three years without being trimmed at least, to get to this stage.”