That familiar cold trickle races down my spine at the sound of my husband’s husky growl, and I snatch the bloody Mary from the counter before rushing from the kitchen to find him in the breakfast room.
Standing with his hands braced against the doorway, Pyotr scowls at the table.
He’s slightly unsteady on his feet as he releases the doorjamb, and I pull out the chair at the head of the table so he can collapse into it.
Then, wordlessly, I pass him his drink.
Taking a considerable swig of the vodka-infused clamato juice, my husband slams the drink down onto the table and releases a loud belch. “It’s watered down,” he states flatly, shoving the half-empty glass back in my direction. “Get me a fresh one. Two shots of vodka this time—or are you trying to sober me up?”
Knowing silence is better than giving the wrong answer, I press my lips together and race back to the kitchen to trade out the glasses.
When I return, Pyotr’s downing the three Advil I set out for him with a glass of water.
He quickly chases it with another generous gulp of his fresh bloody Mary, then stares expectantly at the spread stretching along the table.
“Can I make a plate for you?” I offer, knowing he expects me to.
He grunts an acknowledgment before picking up his phone and starting to scroll—no doubt looking for how the Chiaroscuros’ downfall will appear in the news.
“You weren’t in bed this morning,” my husband observes coldly as I set his plate before him and settle into the seat at his side.
“I thought you might be hungry when you woke and came to oversee preparations,” I say, my heart fluttering uncomfortably against my ribs.
“And what took you so long to come to bed last night?” he challenges, clearly looking for a fight.
“I—just wanted to make myself presentable,” I falter, my cheeks warming with the outright lie. I didn’t even bother putting on one of the skimpy outfits he likes to take off me.
He grunts, returning his eyes to his phone before picking up his fork and scooping a generous portion of crispy potatoes into his mouth.
He chews slowly, then tosses down his fork. “The food is cold.”
“It can’t be,” I assure him, my mouth running before I can catch it. “It just came off the stov?—”
I should expect it by now, the backhand that comes seemingly from out of nowhere and strikes my right cheekbone hard enough to send me reeling from my chair onto the floor.
Ears ringing, I look up at him, half-stunned, my skin burning where he made contact. But he’s already gone back to looking at his phone.
“Get up,” he commands after a moment of tense silence. “Tell the kitchen I want somethingfresh. If it’s not steaming, it’s not hot, Alina.”
A hollowness aches inside me, threatening to swallow me whole, but I push it down, ignoring the sense of hopelessness that lives as my constant companion.
Pushing up off the ground, I get back to my feet and reach for his rejected plate. But Pyotr snatches my wrist in a vise-like grip.
“Leave it. I’ll pick at it until you get me a respectable meal,” he growls, his eyes burning with pent-up aggression. And rather than release me to my assigned task, he grips me tighter, jerking me close.
I stumble forward in my heels, my heart breaking into a sprint at the familiar bloodlust in Pyotr’s eyes, and I catch myself on the edge of the table as dread sinks into the pit of my stomach.
But before I can take a step back, raised voices coming from the foyer catch my ear.
My pulse quickens, even before I know the cause.
Then I gasp as the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire erupts in the distance.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Pyotr’s scowl as he turns his bloodshot eyes toward the dining room door.
Slowly rising from his chair, he turns to face it, his expression growing darker by the moment.
The doors slam open, several Novikov guards rushing into the room uninvited, their eyes wild. It must be bad, because everyone knows not to disturb thePakhanwithout express permission.
