"She didn't know," I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. I close the security footage and lean back in my chair. "But that doesn't mean her family wasn't involved."
"So, what do we do with her?"
Good question. The smart thing would be to send her back, wash my hands of the whole mess. But smart isn't always right, and right now, Alina Popov might be the only leverage I have.
"She stays," I say, making the decision even as I speak. "Under my protection, under my watch. Until we know who orchestrated this massacre, she doesn't leave this house."
"And if her father was involved?"
Then she becomes the most valuable piece on the board. I don't say it out loud, but Alexei understands. He's been with me long enough to know how this game is played.
"If Viktor Popov wanted me dead, he just made a very expensive mistake," I say, pouring myself a third drink. "And his daughter is going to help me make him pay for it."
Alexei nods slowly, then opens his mouth to respond. But before he can speak, the study door bursts open. One of the guards hurries in.
"I apologize for the interruption, Pakhan, but I thought you would want to see this.”
Alexei and I exchange a glance. "What is it?" I demand.
The guard steps over to my desk and picks up the remote to my flat screen TV. He clicks it on to the first news station he finds. "Viktor Popov,” he snarls. “He just issued a public statement, claiming you have kidnapped his daughter from her own wedding.”
I did, of course, but this just makes everything that much more dicey.
Alexi scowls at the television. “He doesn’t say it, but Viktor is making it sound like you are behind the church attack.”
5
ALINA
Istand at the window for what feels like hours, my palms pressed against the glass, testing its strength for the hundredth time. It doesn't budge. The reinforced panes are thick enough that even if I had something to break them with, I doubt I'd make it through before Dimitri's men stopped me. The locks are sealed shut and won’t move, either.
I turn away from the window and survey my prison. The bedroom is beautiful, I'll give Dimitri that much. Large windows overlook manicured gardens, a king-sized bed dominates the space with expensive linens in shades of cream and gold, and an en-suite bathroom features a soaking tub that probably costs more than my father paid for my entire wedding. Everything is tasteful, expensive, and utterly impersonal.
Except for the closet.
I open it again, running my hands over the clothes hanging inside. Designer pieces, all of them. Dresses in silk and cashmere, blouses with French labels, jeans that probably cost a thousand dollars. They're in my size—or close enough—whichmakes me wonder if Dimitri planned this. If he knew he'd be bringing me here.
I pull out a simple pair of black jeans and a soft gray sweater, desperate to get out of my undergarments that I've been wearing since the church. My wedding dress lies in a crumpled heap on the floor where I let it fall, unable to stand the weight of it anymore. The ivory silk is stained with soot and blood—Sergei's blood. Dark patches have dried into the fabric, turning it rust-colored in the dim light. I can't look at it without seeing him fall, without hearing the wet thud of his body hitting the floor.
In the bathroom, I scrub my face and hands, watching the water run gray with ash and soot. My reflection in the mirror is almost unrecognizable. My red hair is wild, tangled with bits of glass that I carefully pick out. My green eyes are bloodshot and hollow. I look like I've aged ten years in a single day.
I splash cold water on my face and try to think clearly. Sergei is dead. The man I was supposed to marry, the man who was supposed to be my future—however unwanted—is gone. I should feel something. Grief, maybe, or at least shock. But all I feel is a strange numbness, like I'm watching all of this happen to someone else.
With a shudder, I turn off the sink water and turn on the shower faucets. I don’t take a long shower, though. What if Dimitri decides to come back, or someone else? I don’t want to be caught naked and vulnerable. But the hot water streaming on my shoulders feels so good, it’s difficult to force myself to turn off the faucets and towel off.
The clothes fit well enough, though the jeans are slightly loose at the waist. I find socks in a drawer, along with expensive lingeriethat I refuse to touch. The thought of wearing another woman's intimate things makes my stomach turn.
I return to the bedroom and try the door again, knowing it's futile. The lock is solid, probably reinforced like everything else in this fortress. I press my ear against the wood, listening for sounds of movement in the hallway, but there's nothing. Just silence.
Hours pass. It’s completely dark outside now. Not even the hint of moonlight can be seen through the thick clouds. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since breakfast—a lifetime ago, when I was still preparing for a wedding I didn't want.
Finally, I hear footsteps in the hallway. The lock clicks, and I step back, my heart racing. But it's not Dimitri who enters. It's a woman, middle-aged, wearing a simple black dress and white apron. A maid. She carries a tray laden with food—soup, bread, what looks like chicken and vegetables.
"Wait," I say in Russian as she sets the tray on the small table near the window. "Please, can you tell me?—"
But she's already moving toward the door, her eyes downcast, refusing to meet my gaze.
"Please!" I try again, switching to English in case she understands it better. "I just want to know what's happening?—"
