“Of course,” Carver agrees instantly. “We’d never go out of our way to harm innocents. There are unfortunate times when they get caught in the crosshairs, but—”
“Those times are now at an end,” Sergei says, his voice deepening. “This is not a negotiation. You cross my lines, you crossme.I don’t think I need to tell you what happens to those who cross me.”
“We’ll keep that in mind going forward,” Carver replies.
“If I could say a few words, Mr. Novikov?” Clyde questions.
Sergei tilts his head slowly. “As long as you don’t waste my time with bullshit.”
“I’ll make this quick. You see, Mira is my stepdaughter, and we’ve grown estranged ever since she ran off to that fancy college.”
My blood runs cold. My heart stutters and nearly stops. Dorian’s grip on me turns to steel as we both try to figure out what the fuck Clyde’s angle is here.
“I’ve tried to reach out and rekindle our relationship several times, but she’s never given me the chance,” Clyde goes on. “Then, a few months ago, I heard through the grapevine that she’d shacked up with one of your soldiers. I finally managed to get a hold of her, and she indicated that it wasn’t of her own free will. In accordance with your own rules about leaving women out of business, I have to bring up my concern about your foot soldier.” Clyde turns to stare in my direction, fixing his gaze on Dorian. There’s shielded amusement and victory in his eyes, like he really expects his pathetic ploy to work. Like he didn’t insult me outside just a few minutes ago, right in front of Sergei.
Clyde managed to do the near-impossible by sounding genuine. Even though I know Sergei won’t feed into his bullshit, I feel an old sense of fear overcome me. A remnant from my time living under Clyde’s roof.
“Is that so?” Sergei drawls. He looks at Dorian and crooks a finger. “Forward, soldier. Bring your woman.”
Dorian takes my hand, enveloping it in his. I feel a fine tremble in my limbs as we walk forward, breaching the space between the staircase and the center of the room where the men are seated. We stop in front of Sergei, with our backs to Clyde and Carver.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Dorian?”
The energy in the room snaps taut, but not just from Dorian’s impending words. It takes me a moment to realize the vibes of the buildinghave shifted—something’s going on upstairs. I try to focus in, to find a hint of something familiar… and then I feel it. Three very distinct presences belonging to three very distinct people.
“Clyde is lying,” Dorian says simply.
Clyde opens his mouth to protest; Sergei holds up a sharp hand, cutting him off before he can speak.
“Are you sure about your answer?” Sergei asks Dorian.
“Categorically.”
“Hmm.” Sergei shifts his gaze over to me. After a moment, he beckons me to step forward. The energies in the building turn more tumultuous, more dangerous, but that perversely makes me feel better.
“Mira, was it?” Sergei asks, as if he’s only seen me in passing.
I nod, playing along.
“You don’t have to fear any reproach from me. Tell the truth; are you with my soldier of your own freewill?”
“I am,” I tell Sergei firmly. “If I can speak openly?”
“I’d prefer if you did.”
“Dorian has never done anything to harm me. He’s never raised a hand to me, never made me feel poorly about myself or like I’m a burden in his life. He makes me feel safe, coveted, and protected.” I inhale a deep breath. “But there is a person in this room whohasharmed me. Who enjoyed beating me. Who made a pointed effort to remind me of how much of a burden I was—who nearly killed me at least half a dozen times, and nearly got me killed more times than I could count.”
I hear a rustle of fabric behind me as Clyde shifts in his seat, feel the animosity radiating from him double.
“And that man would be?”
“Clyde.”
“Lyingbitch,” Clyde snaps. His chair shifts back as he stands from his seat. I gasp as he grabs a fistful of my shirt and spins me around. He truly didn’t expect me to speak out—I guess he figured I hadn’t changed over the years. That I was the same timid, weak girl who scurried out of his shitty house and ran far away. I amcertainlynot.
His hold on my shirt is firm; if I try to get out of his grip, I’ll probably tear the fabric. So, I do the only thing I can think of doing to prove that I amnotthe Mira who ran from him.
I spit in his face.
