Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Lips hovered dangerously close to mine, and his breath brushed my cheek. “You good?” Jake whispered.
I nodded, heat rushing to my face. You like bad men, Sima. That’s how you’ve worked yourself up to Rurik. “Get off me, Jake.”
“Gladly.” He rolled away. We scrambled up, brushing off mud and grass, not daring to meet each other’s eyes.
I walked closer to the still, dark lake and along the mouth of the dock.
“Simona, wait.” Jake followed.
Boards creaked under his boots. My breath caught as he neared. My lips ached for a kiss. Instead, he pulled out his phone.
Jake flicked on the flashlight, and my stomach dropped. A bullet lodged deep into the post. More holes pocked the wood. The cold stabbed through me as I dove headfirst into Loch Ness. The world shrieked in silence—freezing black swallowing me whole.
Not thinking, I tried to scream her name and swallowed muddy liquid. You can’t die, moya kuzyan, moya sestra, moya sem’ya.
I mentally chanted those words—my cousin, my sister, my family—until Jake dragged me to the surface. We shivered, smoke curling from our flesh.
He held me tight. “We gotta call my clan, Simona. We gotta tell them.”
Despite the intense cold that threatened to overcome me, I stuttered, “We … we can’t.”
“Why not?” Voice hardened, Jake trapped me between his legs, arms locked around me. Instead of forcing the truth out, his breath warmed my neck.
“Because …” My teeth chattered. “She can’t be dead! Jake, you must understand. The Mikhailovs—if Natasha’s dead—they’ll come after us. We are bound. Contracted. Her to Edik. Me to Rurik.” My voice broke at his name. “I’d rather die than fulfill my obligation … but they-they’d resuscitate me! They’d bring me back just to make me suffer.”
“Jesus,” he whispered.
“At least she has the weak one,” I said, staring at the bullet holes gouged into the dock post. “She just has to be alive … for more reasons than being my cousin … my best friend.”
Jake glanced over the black water, jaw twitching.
“Because if she’s not,” I muttered, “then we’re already dead. Every … Resnov.”
51
NATASHA
My dreams had never been so sweet.
Even before my eyes fluttered open, last night wrapped me in a warm embrace. The good. The hallelujah-thank-you-Jesus good. My man—no, my husband—loved me for me. Lachlan had shown me the intimacy that uplifted, elevated, nurtured, cherished, and adored. Dang, Natasha, how many synonyms do you wanna throw in here? I’d list them all day.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, the good, the stars in the sky, and the ugly.
I glimpsed that before even opening my eyes because a person didn’t grow without battle wounds. I’d grown stronger because of Lorenzo’s actions. And last night, I’d seen Lachlan in a new light. He grew too—his fingers intertwined with mine as we lay in bed.
And before dawn claimed the night, with no pillows beneath our heads, he’d slid his arm underneath mine, granting me a comfortable rest. A small act, and I melted into the strength and safety of him.
Now I wanted to melt again.
My lashes fluttered open, light kissing the edges of the room. “Hubby, I’m ready for round …” What round was it?
Light spilled over crumpled sheets as I slipped into Pop’s oversized necklace. I padded to the foot of the mattress, past my Converses when I called his name again. “Lachlan?”
Man, I expected that husky Scottish reply.
Silence.
Chewing my lip, I entered the bathroom. The mirror stopped me cold.
Oh, no, he didn’t.
Lachlan wrote over the mirror with lipstick. My lipstick. The note read,
My lovely wife, I’m grabbing breakfast, maybe haggle someone to make a phone call. Sorry, no pens or pencils.
“Or utensils.” I shook my head.
I headed toward the bedroom, humming a tune and shoving into my jeans and shirt. I lifted my arm and sniffed. “Oh, lawd.” Then a quick breath check. Passable. Maybe a water rinse and bird bath—
Creak.
Not the shuffle of Lachlan’s Nikes.
Heavy. Purposeful. The sound iced my blood.
I scanned the room. No Lachlan. No weapons—unless you counted the makeshift clothes rack in the corner. Not even a wire hanger to stab someone with.
He stepped into view, big enough to block the doorway.
My throat closed. The tears came hot, uninvited—not because Lorenzo stood there. He didn’t.
The last granule of time sifted through my fingers. “You’re w-with the Mikhailovs?”
“Da.” A simple nod. His gaze flicked to the mattress, his expression unreadable. “We will not disclose this. Our secret, da?”
Mikhailovs clung to Russian traditions. Women remained pure, especially those tied to the bratva elite. And they were infamous for killing the messenger who delivered bad news.
“I can’t go with you.” I placed a hand on my hip, hiding the tremor in my fingers. “Edik and I have an arrangement. We both agreed to marry for love! Touch me, you’ll start a war.”
“You misunderstand.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “It is your father who has initiated a war. Vassili breached the Resnov-Mikhailov agreement—”