A small, traitorous part of me wants to smile. “He let me win.”
She snorts. “Roman does not ‘let’ anyone do anything on that board. His father used to starve him for losing. Lock him in a dark room with no supper until he learned not to make mistakes.” Her hands keep moving. “You beat him because you are clever and because he was looking at you. Both are interesting.”
Heat flashes up my neck. “He was not—”
“Devushka.” She rolls her eyes. “I watched that boy grow up. I know when he is thinking with brain and when he is thinking with something a little lower.”
Thirty. Thirty-five.
“He made me kneel,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “In his office. Just because I said he was like the others.”
Her fingers don’t pause. “Did he hurt you?”
“He didn’t have to,” I say. My cheeks burn. I remember his hand in my hair, the way my body reacted, stupid and hot and confused. “It was humiliating.”
Galina meets my eyes in the mirror again. For a second, something like sympathy flickers there. It’s gone almost immediately.
“His father liked to hurt,” she says. “Viktor liked to break things to see how they screamed. People, animals, everything.” There’s no softness in her tone now, only hard facts. “Roman watched. Years and years, he watched. Then one day he picked up the knife himself because he decided it was better to be the one holding it.”
Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.
The last button slides into its loop. I’m sealed in.
Galina turns me all the way toward the mirror. “Vot.”
The woman staring back at me doesn’t look like me at all.
Same eyes, sure, but they look darker with the makeup she somehow managed to put on my face while I was busy not crying. My hair is twisted up and pinned, curls pulled loose around my face. The dress fits perfectly, of course. The neckline skims the top of my breasts, enough to let anyone know what Roman Volkov is buying, and the sleeves are lace that hides my old lab scars.
I look… beautiful. Like I wandered out of someone else’s stupid Pinterest board.
I also look like property.
Galina lifts a veil from the dressing table. The tulle is so fine I can barely feel it when she pins it into my hair, but everything blurs.
“My mother would be horrified,” I say.
“Your mother would be proud,” Galina answers. “She would know you did ugly thing for good reason.” She adjusts the veil. “You are already planning how to kill him, aren’t you?”
I choke. “What?”
She snorts. “I have been watching Volkov men for sixty years. I know a murder plan when I see one sitting behind someone’seyes.” Her hand lands on my shoulder. “Good. Keep plan. But don’t be stupid with it. Don’t let Vadim see it. He smells blood from three rooms away.”
A quiet knock sounds on the door.
“Time, Galina Ivanova,” Luka calls.
Galina offers me her arm. My legs feel like they belong to a mannequin, stiff and not entirely attached, so I take it. Her grip is strong. For a tiny old woman, she could probably drag me if I refused to move.
“Spine,” she says under her breath as we walk. “And teeth. Always teeth.Ne pokazyvay krov’. Don’t show them your blood.”
Easier said than done when my pulse is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
* * *
The room they take me to is not a chapel.
It looks more like a war room.
