“Mr. Korsakov,” he murmurs next. “He invests in harbors and grudges. Smile. Promise nothing.”
I give a polite smile and promise nothing. He beams.
We slide to a pair near the lilies. “Judge Becker,” Fyodor says. “First name today. He prefers it when there are no robes. Robin.”
I thank the judge for coming. The judge takes my hand like I rescued him from paperwork.
A server appears with water. Fyodor intercepts and presses a glass into my palm. “Drink.”
The water cuts through a layer of nerves I could not swallow. “Thanks for that.”
He stays at my side as a guide and a shield. He jokes once, gently, about the way I say a certain surname. He is kind about it. I am grateful for how easy he makes this look.
Roman moves through the crowd like a steady current. People bow toward him without bowing. He says very little and means all of it. When our eyes meet across the room, my shoulders settle without me telling them to. It is less stressful knowing I have him in my corner now.
The twins are upstairs in the nursery with a house nurse from Roman’s staff, but I feel the tug of them in my ribs. I lean toward Roman. “I need to feed the babies.”
He nods at once. “Use the sitting room by the winter garden. Marcus will clear the path.”
Marcus is already moving. The band swells to cover the shift. Tanner signals two more of Roman’s team to watch the corridor. Guests’ bodyguards glance up when we pass. They note my face, note Marcus, and return to their corners.
The sitting room is two turns off the main hall. It’s quiet when the door shuts. A low lamp. A couch and a chair. A table with water and a neat stack of cloths. Roman must have known I’d need this space. It is odd. I’m not used to someone anticipating my needs.
It makes me suspicious of him. But he’s already gotten everything from me. What more could he want?
A minute later the house nurse wheels in the double stroller. “They’re hungry. I’ll be right outside.” She leaves me alone and pulls the door shut.
Peace lands like a blanket. I unclip the top of my dress and settle in the chair. Yuri first. He burrows and latches, loud with relief. I breathe through the first ache and touch his hair. His body goes heavy. Xander fusses in the stroller, then accepts the bottle I tuck into the crook of my elbow. I hold them both for a moment because I can. The noise of the reception turns to a soft vibration through the wall.
Mom was right. Combining breastfeeding and bottle feeding was the right way to go for twins. I close my eyes and count breaths. Everything is ordinary in a way I crave. My shoulders drop in the quiet of the sitting room. I can finally breathe deep in here. No more eyes on me, other than my boys.
It hasn’t been a minute when I hear voices through the wall. Not loud. Carried by the old vent near the ceiling. Russian. Two men.
I do not move. I haven’t told anyone here that I understand Russian. I learned it for a different life, when I thought Vitaly’s future would need me to bridge rooms for him. The language stayed after everything else went bad.
“Is it ready?” one man asks.
“The happy couple won’t make it through the night,” the other answers.
What did he just say?
“The poison works that fast?”
“It works thatslow,” the other says. “It’ll take hours with the dose on their wedding goblet. But if I put more on it, they’ll notice the taste is off.”
The room tilts. My mouth dries. I press my tongue to the back of my teeth to keep them from clicking.
“No antidote?”
“Not in this country,” the other answers.
I know that voice. The exact tone. The measured way he shapes consonants. It is Fyodor. The man who has been a constant at Roman’s side. The man who guided me through this chaos for the last hour. What the hell is going on?
The other voice is familiar. The room fuzzes around the edges while my brain turns the sound until it clicks into place.
“Good work,” the first man says.
“When you’re pakhan, Vitaly, you owe me,” Fyodor replies.
