Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“This place is outfitted for long-term stay, Rafail.”
I nod. “It is, which is reassuring if we need it. We also have secure routers for Wi-Fi, so all of us can continue to work as usual. But I don’t think we’ll need to stay here beyond a few days.”
“Days!” Irma is on her feet. “I can’t stay here for days. I have social commitments and appointments.”
“Sit down, Irma,” Eduard says, fruitlessly of course.
She spins around and glares at him, her eyes masked with thick, false lashes, her bright-red lips pursed. “It’s cramped in here, and the ventilation’s terrible. I suspect the water’s hard, which will absolutely wreck my hair, and I cannot sleep on a bed that hard.”
“The bed’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “And you can keep your appointments as soon as we know it’s safe.”
She frowns at me but talks to her husband. “And why do I have to do what he says? He’s a child.”
I hold her gaze. I haven’t been a child in over a decade, and she knows it. “You’ll do what I say because I’m pakhan of this family, and if you challenge me, Irma, I’ll remind you exactly what that means.” My tone is sharp, unyielding, and I see fear flicker in her eyes.
Her jaw drops. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Sit down, Irma,” Eduard snaps at the same time Matvei shakes his head and frowns at her.
“He is in charge, and he’s also right.”
She opens her mouth and stares before she finally flounces down on the sofa like a spoiled child. “They’d better have decent food,” she mutters, then thankfully clams up.
“Oh, they do,” Zoya says eagerly. “I’ve inventoried the kitchen. It’s excellent. I’ll be able to keep us well-fed for as long as needed. There’s a fully stocked pantry, and the freezer’s full of meats and fish.”
“Thank you,” I tell her with a little smile. “You won’t be the only one cooking.”
I ignore the others’ groans. No one ever died from burnt toast and overcooked eggs.
“Really, Rafail, the accommodations are fine,” Yana says. “It’s honestly way more comfortable than I expected. Very nice.” Her face is pinched, and I know exactly why. There was no time to take her husband with us. I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. “I promise we’ll leave as soon as we can.”
Semyon nods in approval. “Not bad at all. We should take notes.”
I nod. “I am.”
Rodion agrees. “You know I like it.”
Matvei shrugs. “My only complaint is having to share a room with Gleb like we’re kids again, but having to deal with him is a small price to pay for security.”
I look back to their door. “Speaking of Gleb. Go check on him, Mat.”
We make a brief plan for who’s cooking what and when with the help of Zoya before she and Rodion head to the kitchen to get dinner started when Matvei finally comes back in. His face is pale, but his eyes are fire when he returns.
“He fell asleep.”
I nod, trying to consider whether or not we should wake him up. I want him present. We all should be. There’s plenty of time to sleep. But in the end, I decide to let it go.
Zoya and Rodion prep dinner, and when I return to the bedroom, Anissa’s resting as well.
“It’s almost dinnertime,” I tell her.
Her back is to me, but I can hear her loud and clear. “I’m not hungry,” she says in a pouty voice.
Sighing, I sit beside her. “You need to eat.”
“I ate plenty earlier.”
I stroke her back, but my mind’s already ten steps ahead. The unknown looms in front of me, and I fucking hate it. This waiting, this powerlessness, is driving me mad.
I continue to rub her back. It seems to soothe me as much as it does her while I fill her in on the meeting.
“Rafail?”
“Yeah.”
“What did Gleb say?”
She rolls over and looks at me, her brow furrowed.
“About what?”
“About what you’ve said tonight.”
“Nothing. He wasn’t there.”
She sits up straighter in bed, her eyes wide as she clutches the sheets. What the hell?
“Where is he?”
“Relax, he was sleeping. What’s going on?”
Wordlessly, she shows me a picture on her phone. “This was from a few years ago.”
I look it over. Cold dread tightens my chest when I see her—my bride, Polina Romanova—smack dab in the center of the Romanov family.
“Do you see him?”
“Who?” She has lots of brothers.
Fuck.
“Look,” she says, stabbing at the screen. I didn’t even notice the smaller boy in the corner of the frame. I squint my eyes before realization hits.
“Is that—Jesus, that looks like Gleb. It’s hard to tell; this is an older photo, and the quality’s shit. But if it is him… why’s he in this picture?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t remember him at all. I know that we had galas and auctions; it was an annual event with my family. Can you ask Gleb if he remembers anything?”