Page 16 of Beautiful Ruin

I stare at him.

I hate how quickly my mind fills in the blanks. Some enemy I was never allowed to know existed came close enough to put their hands on the only person who has always felt untouchable to me? A friend turned foe? A ghost from his past coming back to finally haunt him?

I imagine my uncle, the man who has always existed in my mind as some immovable and iron-willed object, suddenly made mortal by somebody else’s hand. If my uncle can be touched, then no one in this world is truly ever safe. And that is terrifying to think about.

Tears sting behind my eyes, sudden and vicious. I refuse to let them fall. I will not cry in front of Rowan Vasiliev. If I let myself fall apart out here in front of him, I may never be able to claw any ounce of my dignity back.

I drag in a breath that burns on the way down and force my voice to work. “It’s cold. We should head inside.”

Rowan watches me for a long moment. The wind moves through the courtyard, the cold punishing, carrying the smells of snow and pine and a distant hint of exhaust from the SUV.

Then, finally, he steps back. He turns slightly and gestures toward the open door behind him, escorting me without touching me. I move past him, every nerve in my body aware of him at my back.

As I cross the threshold into the estate, warmth washes over me, but it does nothing to ease the chill lodged under my skin. The entrance hall stretches wide and opulent before me, polished marble and glittering chandeliers hanging overhead like captive stars. Cameras blink their silent red eyes from their corners and armed guards stand at discreet intervals.

It should feel grand.

Instead, it just feels like the inside of a jeweled coffin.

5

ROWAN

It takes all of six days for Sofia to demand to see her uncle.

I know it’s coming before she even opens her mouth because the questions have been stalking her since the moment she stepped through the front doors of this estate while slowly shedding herself from the last bits of Italian sunlight that still seem to cling to her.

She has been circling the subject silently for days now, testing the edges of her new confinement the way a cat might test the bars of its cage before deciding whether clawing at it is worth the effort.

In a strange way, I’m a little impressed it takes her that long to actually work up the nerve and say something. Most women in her position would have done one of two things by now—broken down into hysterics or thrown a full-on tantrum the moment they realized the rules being laid out for them were not at all suggestions.

Surprisingly, Sofia does neither.

It’s something I’ve noticed about her that I wasn’t at all expecting. Which only serves to irritate me more than it should. I prefer people when they are exactly what I think they are, predictable and easy to sort into categories that tell me whether they are a threat, a burden, or something else. It keeps the world orderly, in my opinion. People have always been easier to manage when they stay inside the box built for them.

Unfortunately, Sofia refuses to do that.

What I expected was a spoiled heiress dripping with unchecked attitude and privilege to come strolling in through the gates of the Kuznetsov estate. A woman too used to getting whatever she wanted because she’s never wanted for anything in her entire life. That has always been the impression I carried of her, even if it has been from a distance.

Ivan’s precious hidden niece.

The girl spirited away to Europe with tuition bills large enough to feed small districts and wardrobes that cost more than some make in an entire year.

Sheltered, protected, polished into a soft doll to keep on a shelf and away from the filth of our world that tends to stain whoever is in it.

But in reality, Sofia is far from that entirely.

She doesn’t like the rules, that much is obvious.

But she doesn’t waste energy fighting against things she already knows she will never win. She studies them instead, watches what goes on around her, soaks in her environment before acting, taking in the rooms around her that will now be her permanent home, or prison, depending on how honest either of us feels like being.

This world has a way of swallowing people whole if they let it. Most newcomers either shrink under the weight of it or immediately start trying to prove they are not intimidated. Both never tend to end well.

I never expected her to act any differently from those who have come before her.

That more than anything unsettles me.

On the morning of the sixth day, I catch her sitting in the breakfast room long before the rest of the staff have risen to start their prep for the day. At this hour, the estate is usually at its quietest. There is no usual clatter of pots and pans spilling out from the kitchen, no footsteps traveling up and down the hallways as guards circle their rotations. This is the only time of day where my mind feels settled.