I follow him down the hallway and peer through the peephole of the front door. On the other side stands a man in a slightly rumpled, cheap suit, holding a badge in front of him.
“It’s Detective Scott, Miss Dior,” he announces gruffly. “Sorry to disturb you, I know it’s getting late.”
“Dior?” I whisper to Viktor, who stands nearby, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
He rolls his eyes dramatically, an amused grin tugging at his lips. “I know. She insisted that it be her new last name.”
I shoo him away with a flick of my wrist and gesture for him to leave while indicating myself and the door.I’ll deal with this.He nods in agreement, returning to Alyona’s bedroom and closing the door.
Opening the front door, I take a moment to assess Detective Scott. He appears taken aback, momentarily caught off guard by a male appearance, and not the blonde bombshell he was expecting.
“Apologies,” he says, glancing at the door number before pulling out a small notepad to confirm his notes. “I’m looking for Miss Dior.”
“Ally isn’t feeling up to visitors right now. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his gaze flickering over me as he processes my response. Then he inquires, “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say and you didn’t ask.” Tension builds, thickening around us until his phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking our stare off.
“Excuse me, I need to take this.” He frowns and takes a step back.
“Sure.” I shrug and then shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks as I wait.
“Chief? Oh, okay, yes, sir.” He mumbles down the line and walks toward a dark sedan parked beside Viktor’s car. When he ends the call, he looks back at me and says, “Thanks for the cooperation.”
“No problem.” I slam the door shut and whirl around to find Viktor holding up his phone with a smug expression. “Like I said, the chief owes me a favor or two.” He gives me a playful wink.
I wonder how many favors we’re all going to need to call in before this is all over.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alyona
Where am I? Why does everything hurt so bad?
I wake in my bed, the dizziness and nausea finally fading, leaving my head somewhat clearer. All the craziness that’s happened in the past day or two comes trickling back into the forefront of my mind. Rubbing at my arm where the PICC line has been replaced with a Band-Aid, I wince. I vaguely remember the nurse leaving before sleep took hold. I pick up the glass on the bedside table and take a small swig to wet my dry lips.
The mattress has been cleaned and new bedding put on, but it still feels grim being in the bed where Jeremiah was murdered.
The sun is rising causing a soft glow, illuminating the room in subdued light. Shadows stretch ominously from the corners. This place has a coldness that’s been amplified by what happened here. As soon as I’m able, I’m going to pack our bags and find somewhere else to live.
Deep breathing draws my attention to Rodion’s body lying beside me on the covers. My heart skips a beat at the sight.
He’s so beautiful.
It seems like an odd word for a man whose large frame causes his feet to dangle off the end of the bed, but he truly is beautiful. His brown hair is pushed off his face, curling around his ears. It always looks longer when he leaves it unstyled. His bone structure is one that any model would envy, with dark lashes fanning against his slightly heated cheeks. Although he’s sleeping, the serpent on his neck is always watching and where Z’s snake has green eyes, Rodion’s has blue. His chest is bare, though he still wears slacks and shoes. My eyes greedily roam over the creamy expanse of his skin, with muscles defined even in sleep. I watch as his fingers twitch, the veins in his arms tensing.
Damn, I love those veins.
I search the room, frowning. Where is Zahkar? Maybe he didn’t want to stay. The punch to my gut at that thought hurts worse than any knife wound I’ve received.
Carefully getting out of bed, ensuring I don’t wake Rodion, I tiptoe across the tiled floor to use the bathroom. Zahkar’s scent clings to me, and I realize I’m still wearing his shirt.
I decide to forgo flushing to minimize noise, then I rinse my hands and brush my teeth to get rid of my morning breath.
After sneaking back across the bedroom, I pull a pair of sleep shorts from the dresser and slip them on before making my way to Roza’s bedroom. She’s usually woken for a bottle by now—a habit I know we need to break at this age, but I can’t seem to bring myself to take that from her.
Why is she so quiet?
