Lev. Always silent. Always there. Protecting me in ways I never asked for. And now he might die because I brought this storm right into Konstantin’s house. Into his empire.
What would have happened if, instead of leaving the house, I’d locked the door? Called Kashmere from upstairs and texted Konstantin about the blood, the scuff marks?
Why was I so stupid to think that violence couldn’t reach me there?
Because he promised you,a small voice comments in the back of my head. It’s accusatory, bitter, and it takes the edge off of my guilt—but only a little.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Konstantin shifts slightly, glancing at me with a look I can’t decipher. The swelling in his face has gone down, but his expression is pale steel.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
I shake my head quickly, not wanting both of us to waste time or emotions on regret. “You had to, Konstantin. If you hadn’t he would have…”
“He would have killed you. And the child.” His voice is measured, cold. Stating a fact. It chills me to the bone, how matter-of-fact he is about this. “That’s not a line you cross and live.”
“Why… why didn’t they just…? At the country house?”
I can’t seem to put the words together. A pounding headache is creeping in at my temples and suddenly, I’m exhausted. A nurse opens the door, slips in, and sets down a tray of grilled chicken with vegetables. The smell churns my stomach.
Konstantin understands what I’m asking, and his answer makes it clear that he’s all business.Thisis what it’s like being on the receiving end of Konstantin Martynov’s cold brilliance.
“I was the end goal, not you. He still needed you to get to me Audrey. But if something had gone wrong, if Lev had been there to back me up…”
Then the words spill out, quiet and broken: “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
The events of the last few hours flash before my eyes.
The blood. The pounding of my pulse in my ears. Feeling the baby shift; the fear of not feeling the baby at all.
And Konstantin, on his knees, eyes unfocused.
He doesn’t move.
His eyes go distant. Something closes behind them, like a vault. When he speaks again, it’s with the flat voice of a man who’s already started dying.
“I see.”
I shake my head, fighting back tears. “That’s not—it’s not that I don’t want to—I just?—”
“You’re scared.” He’s still staring at the wall. “You should be.”
“I’m not scared of you.” I pause. “Not like that.”
“Then what are you scared of Audrey?”
I sit up slowly, brushing a hand through my tangled hair. I can feel the tears now, balancing in my lashes, stubborn and hot.
“I’m scared that I’m not going to survive this. That I’ll never be anything more than bait. A weapon someone else uses against you. That someday you’ll get shot and not get back up. That someday our child will watch me die because someone wants to hurt you. I’m scared of losing you.”
That makes him look at me.
His voice is a whisper now. “You think I don’t lie awake every night afraid of the same things?”
I bite my lip, hands tingling with anxiety.
“I didn’t plan this,” he continues. “Didn’t plan to want you. To need you. But I do. You’re the only thing I can’t control. And that terrifies me.”
