“Who’s going to be handling talking to the American?” Anton asks, his voice featherlight with a playful smile.
I level my gaze on him. “When she talks, I’ll handle it.”
13
IVY
Ibolt upright in bed just after dawn, the sheets tangled around my legs like restraints, practically trapping me against the mattress. It makes my heart stutter painfully as panic practically chokes me out, my lungs seizing the harder I twist and get myself even more tangled than before.
It takes a moment, longer than I care to admit, to remember where I am as I blink a few times at the unfamiliar ceiling above me.
Oh, right. Maksim’s place. Or rather, mansion.
Fuck.
The room is still dim, the gray wash of morning light filtering through sheer curtains that do nothing to soften the chill seeping through the glass window. I stare at the ceiling for another long moment, counting the way the curtain moves from the breeze of the fan circling overhead, and wait for the tightness in my chest to pass.
I’m not sure how long I end up lying there, but I’m startled into sitting up when there’s a knock at my door, followed by the sound of a lock being shifted. A woman’s voice slips through the crack in the door. “Miss? Breakfast ready. Please come.”
Her English is hard to understand but at least she saysplease.
Do I have much choice otherwise?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub at my face with both hands. I didn’t sleep much, haven’t slept well in days even when I was at Sergei’s, but that’s a whole different story. Every creak in the hallway had sent a sliver of panic racing through me. Every faint footstep beyond the door sounded like a warning shot.
All night, I had been too alert to sleep, like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to swoop down and get me. My nightmares didn’t help either, but again, that’s a story for a different time.
I dress in silence as I pull on a set of clothes from the tidy little wardrobe in the corner that’s been stocked with my size, my style, and my color palette. Someone did their homework. It’s a strange kind of intimacy, being watched that closely, and I hate how easily I settle into the routine that’s already being constructed for me.
That can’t mean I’m staying here long-term, right?
Dread fills my stomach.
Outside the door, two guards flank the hallway when I knock and am let out of the bedroom. They don’t speak to me while escorting me downstairs, don’t even glance at me. They simply fall into place beside me as my silent sentinels, unnerving me to no end.
The staircase leading to the main floor is wide, carpeted in the middle in dark green, polished to a near-glass sheen on the sides. The estate’s main hallway opens into a huge dining room that looks like it was stolen from a palace because of its gilded trim lining the ceilings, velvet curtains tastefully draped over the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and a crystal chandelier above the table.
The table itself is long enough to seat twenty comfortably.
Strangely, it’s empty. No Maksim or his soldiers. Just a woman waiting at the far end for me.
She gestures toward the head of the table. “Please. Sit.”
I do, slowly, settling into the carved chair and plush cushion that sags under me. A silver tray is placed in front of me filled with eggs, toast, and smoked bacon. A cup of steaming coffee in delicate China is sat down too, and I can’t help staring at it for a long moment.
My stomach is tight with nerves, my appetite nonexistent, but I force myself to eat anyway. I’m not sure what will happen to me if I go on a hunger strike, and right now, I’m too much of a coward to find out.
Part of me is grateful for the quiet while I eat. I don’t have to fake a smile or meet anyone’s gaze and pretend like I’m not ready to crawl out of my own skin. I don’t have to pretend I’m not cataloging every exit in line of my sight as my eyes sweep over the rim of my coffee mug. The quiet feels heavy, sure, but that at least is something I can handle at the moment.
When someone does join me, it’s not who I expected.
The man who enters is tall, lean, dressed in a steel-gray set of clothes that fits just a little too perfectly. His jawline is sharp, his peppered hair slicked back with surgical precision, and he’s wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He moves like a knife dressed in fine velvet.
“Good morning,” he says smoothly, his accent soft. “Mind if I join you?”
I stiffen. “It’s not my table.”
