I type in what I want to say back to him and press play. The robotic voice speaks in Russian. “Kogda vspomnish', s kem govorish', i svoi manery, postuchi yeshcho raz.”
No matter how badly my phone butchers it, the message that they need to use their damn manners, and remember who I am, is heard and understood. Because these thugs are nothing more than paid monkeys, I slam the door to remind them of their place, then use the security latch to make sure my door stays closed.
I stay close though, listening as one of the men calls someone for a while until I hear how easily and quickly he rolled over. Good, hired help with loyalty is hard to find.
Leaving him trying to appease his boss, I do another walk-through of my suite, making sure I’ve got everything before touching up my lipstick and pulling on my jacket. The classic Chanel suit is going to be a staple in my wardrobe for the next twelve months, as are the matching heels. I hate them; they’re too tight and offer no comfort. In my previous life, I’d never wear something like this, but here, while I’m pretending to be Victor’s dutiful daughter, I’ll look and act the part.
The final check I want to do before opening the door again is walking into the morning sunshine and making sure the makeup on my hand is no more noticeable than the bite I’m trying to hide. There’s certainly no denying how silver it is now.
I swear I can feel his claiming bite possessively wrapping around me more now I’m in Russia, but at the same time, I’ve barely slept and am as nervous as a black cat.
It’s covered, and I’m ready. I return to wait near the front door, and it isn’t long before there’s another knock. It’s not as sharp or impatient this time.
Swinging the door open, I smile up at him pressing play on my phone. “Dobroye utro. U vas vso khorosho?”
“Da.” Hisyesis simple, not friendly, but it’s a damn sight better than the way he spoke to me before.
I flip to English because while I need to get used to Russian, they also need to get used to how I speak. “Who are you?”
“Work for Mr. Petrov. We take you to him.”
Intentionally offering him my left hand, since he’s acting so amicably, the ugly diamond engagement ring on my finger blinds him, also reminding him who I am—his boss's fiancée.
Seeing my ring and the way they all are forced to acknowledge it brings a smile to my face. Instantly, my thoughts are on Santiago and what he did to my ring not that long ago. Back when life was simpler, back when he was just a beautiful Alpha with a magnificent cock and matching knot.
But the guard leaves me hanging, refusing to take my hand. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and gives me a sharp nod. Admittedly, I didn’t particularly want to touch him either. The thought of touching any other Alpha gives me the creeps.
Stepping aside, I point at the obvious. “I’m ready to leave.”
I grab the smallest cases and wheel them behind me as I walk out into the hotel corridor. And then I keep walking in front of them the whole way through the lobby.
There's a convoy of cars waiting, and another man, dressed similarly to the other three, is holding my door open. His smile is more genuine, and he spits something at the men behind me as he rushes to take my bags.
“Primite moi izvineniya ot imeni g-na Petrova, on privetstvuyet vas u sebya doma.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak a lot of Russian. If you say it again, I can use this.” I hold my phone up and show him the app.
“I welcoming you to Mr. Petrov’s home. He cannot be here.”
I tip my head as thanks, sliding into the back seat of the BMW 7 Series. The car looks brand new, and the new-leather smell confirms it. The driver doesn’t speak a lot as we make ourway back down the road I was on last night, but he does point out a few places for coffee or restaurants that Mr. Petrov frequents.
As we pull into the driveway, the gates are already open, and he pulls to a stop at a gatehouse, where he waits for a guard to wave him through.
“Miss Hernandez.”
“Miss Garcia,” I correct. “For security, I use a different name.” I leave it at that.
There’s no way in hell I’m going into the reason I chose to use my grandmother's maiden name. Changing my surname from Hernandez to Garcia when I left home was done to remind Victor of the deep loathing and mistrust my grandmother always had towards him. My mother was blinded by love, and by the time she could see things properly, he’d ruined her. But by then, she’d made peace with her mother by admitting she was right too. At my grandmother’s and mother’s urging, I lived life with my eyes wide open, seeing the potential good and bad in our world, which is how I stumbled upon what I did.
“Of course, of course.” He reaches over and passes a card. “Miss Garcia, I am Boris, your driver. Mr. Petrov say any time you need to go out, I drive you.”
“Spasibo. Ya tsenyu eto.” I try to thank him, but as soon as I say the words, I’m aware I butcher the pronunciation.
“You are welcome,” he answers before repeating what I said, so I can hear how it should sound.
He pulls the car to a stop, so my door is in line with the entrance. Small tingles race up the back of my neck, all but confirming I’m being watched, despite there being no one on the grand staircase and the front doors being closed.
I have no clue why he’s going out of his way to be friendly. It’s a standard tactic and an easy way of keeping an eye on someone. I don’t react to what he said, in case he really is just trying to be nice. Armed with the feeling someone is keeping tabs on mymovements, I go with mild and meek. At least then I have the advantage of surprise if I need to react any differently.
