Teeth gritted, I growled, “Rurik, what breach of con?—”
“Vassili Resnov’s daughter leaves The Red Door with Scots in a compromising position? We permitted her to date, not shame our families!”
“Appreciate the generosity.” I rolled my eyes.
“This is no time for humor. Drugs!” He spat the word, a poison. “Drugs lead young women into filthy situations.”
“I thought you enjoyed filthy?—”
“Zamolchi!We will not allow this grievous disrespect. Now,wehave … much to discuss.” Rurik finished by barking a name—the name he used when we were alone—anditcut sharp through the air like broken glass against skin.
The line went dead.
A split second later, an address popped up on the screen.
Mouth locked into a vicious scowl; I lowered the phone. Gah, pretenses. I didn’t want to frown or fight. I wanted to curl into a ball. Cry. Natasha was in the Mikhailovs’ hands.
Beside me, Jake watched, his expression unreadable. His hair mussed from sleep. I blinked hard to stop myself from crying and telling him, between sobs, that he should always remain like that. With his hair so free.
“I’ll take you to the castle, Jake.”
“Nae.” His voice broke off into a disbelieving scoff, sounding Scottish for once. He got out of the car.
“Why not?” I growled, following him to the front seat.
“This space is tiny.” Jake flicked a glance to the rear while starting the car. “I saw the address. I’m driving us there. Also heard your entire conversation. That’s Rurik?”
“Da. My future husband. He will not enjoy the sight of me near another man. Believe me, this will spare your life.” I ran a hand over my dark skin … skin so much like Mama’s ancestors. Skin I cherished.Skin… that had drawn too many stares in Russia. Also, the very skin that earned me the vile nickname Rurik just used.
It had happened before, but I’d only told Papa once. A man in a teahouse let his eyes crawl over me, tongue spitting a word that cut deeper than steel. The same word Rurik just called me. A word few Russians reserved for those like me. A slur I’d not forget.
Papa didn’t blink. He drew the knife he’d just sliced into a sweet Medovik and buried it in the man’s rib. Right there, between the samovar and teacups. Blood seeped through white linen, raining into our tea. Papa wiped the blade on the man’s tuxedo and smiled at me. “Never speak of this again.”
But I remembered. Not just the steel, not just the blood. I remembered the fire in his eyes. Violence,da. But also love—the kind that said no one insulted his daughter and walked away breathing.
That day set a precedent. Prejudice? Slurs? Nyet. I hadn’t heard a single one, not again…until Rurik.
“What did he … call you before hanging up?” Jake whispered, dragging me from the memory.
I blinked. He was speeding on a more level road.
Not one to mince words, I told him the phrase. The memory of the blade. Papa’s response that nearly made prejudices go extinct.
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “Normally, I don’t condone violence, but I’m with your father, Sima—ahem, Simona.”
I rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. “The man he murdered was a Mikhailov. Lev Mikhailov’s little brother. Lev … he is father to Rurik and Edik.”
“That’s where the bargain was struck? You girls had to marry their sons?”
“Da.” I ran a hand over my arm. “I know the cost of my skin. I have lived it. Endured it. Learned to carrymeproudly even when whispers come with venom. I did not know it then. All I knew? The Mikhailov name was a dirty whisper. Then Rurik and I had tea.I was fourteen—him too. But his eyes—bozhe moi—you could see it.”
“What?”
“Those eyes belonged to a man who already knew death.” I sighed. “He had killed men long before his beard came in. I ran off to America.”
Annoyed, Jake ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further, before gripping the steering wheel. “Why have tea if they were your enemies?”
“Papa later told me how he learned the man’s name. Lev wanted an alliance. We hold Western Russia. Mikhailov enforces the south. War between us? Deadly.”
