“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she murmurs sleepily.
“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t.”
But I’m glad it did. Even though I know I shouldn’t be.
Her breathing evens out, and I think she’s fallen asleep. I press a kiss to the top of her head, allowing myself this one moment of weakness.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper into the darkness.
7
SOPHIA
The morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, but it brings me no comfort.
I’ve been awake for hours, staring at the ornate ceiling, replaying last night in my mind.
The way Mikhail’s voice softened when he found me in the tunnels.
The tenderness in his touch as he carried me back.
The confusion in his whispered question that he didn’t know I heard.
“What are you doing to me?”
I don’t have an answer for him. I don’t even have an answer for myself.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. “Come in,” I call, expecting one of the silent guards who seem to materialize whenever I need something.
Instead, Elena enters carrying a breakfast tray.
The petite redhead moves with quiet efficiency, setting the tray on the bedside table.
Her blue eyes meet mine briefly, and I see something there I haven’t seen from anyone else in this house: sympathy.
“Mr. Artyomov asked me to bring you breakfast,” she says, her voice soft with a hint of an accent I can’t quite place. “He said you didn’t eat much yesterday.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” I sit up, pulling the sheet around myself. I’m wearing one of Mikhail’s shirts, the fabric soft against my skin and smelling faintly of his cologne.
I loathe that the scent comforts me.
Elena busies herself opening the curtains, letting more light flood the room. “You should eat anyway. You need your strength.”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes me look at her more closely. She’s maybe thirty, with delicate features and a slender build that makes her look almost fragile. But there’s steel in her eyes, a hardness that speaks of survival.
“How long have you worked for Mikhail?” I ask, reaching for the coffee on the tray. It’s prepared exactly how I like it, which means someone has been paying attention.
“Five years.” Elena moves to the closet and begins selecting clothes for me. “He saved my life.”
I pause with the cup halfway to my lips. “What do you mean?”
She glances at the door then back at me. For a moment, I think she won’t answer. Then she sets down the dress she’s holding and comes to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I was married to a man who worked for the Morello family,” she says quietly. “Adrian’s enforcer. He was…not a good man. He kept me locked up, beat me when he was angry. One night, he came home drunk and violent. It was…worse than normal. I defended myself.” Her hands twist in her lap, her next words barely a whisper. “He didn’t make it.”
My breath catches. “Elena…”
“I knew his family would kill me for it. They don’t care about self-defense or abuse. They only care about blood for blood.” She looks up at me, the ghosts of her past haunting her eyes. “I had nowhere to go. The Morellos were hunting me. So I did something crazy. I went to their biggest rival and begged for protection.”
