The solarium is glass, pale stone, and soft lighting. It’s the kind of space that feels separate from the rest of the house. It’s gorgeous during the day, but I prefer it at night when it’s cooler, and no one comes here.
The calm fractures the moment the words on the screen finish sinking in.
No explanation, no details. I start typing back quickly, but then I realize that Asimov likely doesn’t know much either.
My heart slams hard enough that it steals my breath away, and I swipe the phone again as if more information might magically appear if I look hard enough. Nothing. Just that one line, sitting there like a bruise.
I don’t bother gathering my things. I move, fast and reckless. My bare feet slap against the cool floor as I dash through thequiet halls of the house. Somewhere behind me, a door opens, and somewhere ahead, voices hush.
I burst into the main hall, breath coming shallow. “I need a driver,” I say, not stopping, not slowing. “Now.”
The man at the security desk—which is disguised to look like a casual foyer entrance—looks up, startled. For a split second, I see the calculation flicker in his eyes. Then it settles into something smoother, more deferential.
“Yes, Miss Demsky.”
Another guard is already moving, hand to his earpiece. I realize with a jolt that I am being obeyed without question.
No one asks where I’m going or tells me to wait for Kazimir. The machinery of this place shifts around me, efficiently and without question. It’s as if this is exactly what would happen if the real fiancée of the Bratva boss demanded a car in the middle of the night.
Kattrina, one of the maids, appears with a pair of my shoes. I put them on in a hurry and force a smile. It’s then I realize that I’m still clutching my phone.
The irony lands sharp and bitter as I stride out onto the porch. The night air wraps around me, but I don’t feel powerful, I feel sick.
Devin is in the emergency room, and nothing about this feels fake at all.
The emergency room smells like antiseptic and old coffee, the kind that coats the back of your throat and makes it hard to breathe. Or makes you notwantto breathe. I pace the narrow strip of tile between two plastic chairs. My phone is still clenched in my hand even though no one is going to text me.
On the drive over I sent a message asking Asimov if Cinn knew, and he said yes, but she’s not here. Maybe that means it’s not that bad? Maybe Cinn is just heartless. I know one was more likely than the other, and it makes my heart ache.
Every time the double doors at the end of the corridor swing open, my heart stutters, and my body jerks toward the sound like I’m bracing for impact.
Devin should not be back there alone.
It’s more than that, though. All over again I’m 17 in Europe, in the hospital after the car accident.
My grandfather had them pull me out of school and drop me off there, even though he wasn’t there himself. So it was me the doctors talked to, even though they shouldn’t have; I’d lied and told them I was 18. Old enough to handle the details of my mother’s life hanging by a thread.
And when the thread was cut, I was still there alone. Still breathing in antiseptic air and growing chilled in the waiting area.
I don’t hear Kazimir arrive, but I feel him.
The air shifts, pressure snapping tight along my spine, and I turn to see him cutting down the corridor toward me, tall and unyielding beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights. His expression is dark with fury, jaw set hard, eyes locked on me with the kind of focus that usually makes people shrink back.
It’s then I realize that I fucked up. I left without telling him, and he made it clear that I’mnotto do that. I stare at him while he approaches me, his eyes are narrow. He reaches the space in front of me and asks in a low, dangerous voice:
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I got a text,” I answer faintly, no idea what else to tell him. Because I don’tknowanything else. I’m not her next of kin and I’m not listed as an emergency contact, so all I can do is wait.
“You left without telling anyone.”
It’s obvious from his clenched fists that Kazimir is trying to keep himself in check. A quick glance around the waiting room shows the usual suspects: a woman with a limp pacing in a zoned-out kind of way, a young couple where the guy is clutching an obviously hurt forearm, a handful of sick people, a diabetic, a family waiting the same as I am.
“I did,” I insist weakly, wondering if he’s keeping from snapping for my sake or theirs. “I told the guy at the front, and the driver knew and so did some of the other employees?—”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Is there an edge of hurt to his voice? I glance up, but Kazimir is looking over my head instead of at me.
