by Lana Sky
“What’s wrong?” He crouches down, fervently feeling along her forehead. Then he frowns. “Look at me, chérie.”
Magda doesn’t even seem to realize he’s there. Her nostrils flare, her chest heaving as if she’s struggling for air. Desperate to breathe.
“Magdalene,” Vadim says in a stern tone. She blinks, startled, and refocuses on his face.
“I smelled something,” she says, her voice devoid of its usual charm. The resulting effect is a hollow, broken tone that makes me approach her, sinking down beside Vadim. “Do you smell it?”
I sniff and shrug. “Roses?”
Her eyes widen, and she nods, clutching It so tightly her knuckles are white.
“Oh.” Vadim chuckles, ruffling her hair. “Ena has a secret green thumb,” he explains, rising to his feet. “Give him time, and this house will resemble the garden at Tiffany’s family home.”
That seems to mollify her. As if flipping that pesky internal switch, she’s back to her animated self, rearing to enter the house.
“Can we see my pony?” she asks as Vadim gathers our bags and finally unlocks the front door.
“Of course,” he says indulgently. “Let’s put our things away quickly, non? I’m sure we can make it out to our friends before dark.”
They both hasten inside while I take my time savoring the view. Could I learn to call this place home as well? The second I see Magda bound up the stairs, filling the hall with childish clatter, I start to believe I could.
“I’ll make dinner,” I call as Vadim returns downstairs, dressed in a casual pair of slacks and a loose-fitting dress shirt while Magda scampers after him in her riding gear. They race out onto the terrace, Magda’s giggles lingering long after they fade from view.
Left alone, I decide to hone my domestic skills and consider whipping up a meal from scratch. What might I cook safely without risking everyone’s health? Frowning, I open the fridge and peruse the ingredients that Ena’s stocked it with. Finding nothing promising—other than a potential salad—I start toward the pantry, hoping for more convenient options. Like cereal.
Intent on my task, I slip past the fridge, skirting the counter…
And promptly stop short.
A woman is seated at the dining room table, her legs crossed, her slim fingers—each tipped with a sharpened ruby fingernail—tracing patters over the glass surface, her expression the picture of contemplation.
My blood runs cold as she looks up, meeting my gaze.
“I’m surprised, to be honest,” she says, her voice an odd mixture of cutting notes and lilting cadence. Shifting to face me fully, she crosses her arms, observing me with a judgmental flick of her gaze. Her navy dress helps her blend into the monochromatic background, and I wonder, horrified, just how long she’s been sitting here.
Did Magda run right by her?
Or Vadim…
“Dima was always so secretive about his ideal type of woman,” Irina continues, her pink lips quirked in a smirk that doesn’t reach her gaze. Regardless, I stagger back, putting the counter between us, my fingers inching toward one of the drawers containing utensils. The sharp kind.
“How did you even get in here—”
“I’d assumed, it was because his standards were higher than he’d care to admit,” she says, continuing as if I’d never spoken. “He was always so…obsessive with perfection.” She frowns wistfully, her head cocked, gaze reflective. Then she shakes her head, sending her blond waves tumbling down her shoulders. “I will admit that it is disappointing to realize that I was wrong. The boy he was could never resist a sweet. Cheap, tawdry, fleeting joy.”
I stiffen, recognizing an insult when I hear it. Squaring my shoulders, I swallow hard, schooling my expression into a mask of cool politeness. At the same time, my eyes dart to the glass door, hunting for Vadim. Ena. Anyone.
But with no witness in sight, my only course of action is to stay on guard. “You should go—”
“You asked me how I got in,” Irina says, rising to her feet. With enviable grace, she smooths her hands down her front, drawing attention to her ample curves and tiny waist. Deliberately, I suspect—and just as she intends, I brush my hand along my simple dress skirt, mentally comparing the contrasting picture we must make.
As if aware of the thought, she smiles. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
I flinch. “I’m guessing it wasn’t with the permission of security.”
Though she looks so slender in comparison to Ena’s bulk, could she have incapacitated the bodyguard somehow? My stomach twists into knots at the thought—as surly as he can be, Vadim wouldn’t want him hurt.
Neither do I.
“Security,” Irina parrots, purring the word. “As in Boris Ena. Trust Vadim to draw the iciest, most ruthless bastard of the lot to his side. Luckily for me, I remember his…blind spots.”
She winks, her eyelids lowered. At the back of my mind, I recognize the expression as a cruel imitation of one of Magda’s. Her surly, brooding look when she’s mulling over how to get her way during a round of monopoly. The second I see it, I know she’s already won.
And I back up another hasty step. “Did you hurt him?”
She shrugs as her eyes scan the room while her body languidly approaches the counter. Frowning, she swipes her finger over the polished surface, scowling at imaginary dust. “I don’t have to hurt him,” she says, her voice alarmingly soft. “Just outsmart him. And you insinuated permission, I’m assuming. Well, there you have it—” She spreads her arms wide as if to exclaim, “ta da!” In the process, a whiff of her perfume teases my nose, the deceptively sweet scent of roses. “Vadim knows better than anyone my skills of evasion,” she boasts. “Take his hiding behind such lax ‘security’ as proof that he knew I’d return. He all but asked me to.”
I back up another step as she slips onto a stool. With my hand extended behind me, I finally manage to grasp the handle of a drawer. Yanking it open, I feel through the assorted cutlery, finding nothing useful. Forks…spoons—no knives.
“You’re saying Vadim invited you here?” I ask, desperate to feign nonchalance.
Her expression flattens, her gaze clouding over. “You’re mouthier than I’d assume he could tolerate.” Only a subtle, harsh note of inflection reveals her anger.
And yet it’s as bracing as touching a hot stove—every nerve prickles with awareness, warning that I’m in danger of being burned.
“Are you here for Magda, then?” I ask, mainly to keep her talking as I inch back another step, feeling the edge of the drawer brush my lower back.
But if I’d wanted to distract her, I’ve succeeded. She scoffs. “Magdalene? Magdalene is…flawed.” She flicks her fingers as if swatting the mere idea of the girl away. “I can give Dima other children. Perfect children. But can you?”
I’m too stunned by her words—and their disturbing implications—that I barely notice her slip around the counter, her gaze fixated on me. And then my brain finally processes her insult and the sheer, cruel accuracy with which it was aimed.
“Tiffany Connors,” she says as crisply as if reciting from a book. “Your gynecologist has quite the extensive record on you. Endometriosis. Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. The occasional hormone imbalances. Even if you weren’t on birth control, Dima could fuck you raw for a month, and you still wouldn’t conceive, would you?”
Fire sears my cheeks. I blink, too startled to move, even as she slinks closer, her smile knowing.
“And I’m sure he has been fucking you.” She reaches out, swiping the tip of her nail along my cheek.
I recoil so violently I wind up slamming the drawer over my wrist. Only gritting my teeth can keep me from crying out. “D-Don’t touch me—”
“Touch you. Have you ever asked yourself why Vadim can? Why he does?” Her smile is feral, her eyes glittering in the shadow cast by the light falling onto her face from this angle. “It doesn’t come naturally to him, but you know that. He’s pretend
ing, winding you up, his little toy. He’ll watch you spin and spin until you serve your purpose. He’s always been that way. Cruel. I suppose it explains why he’s gotten as far as he has. Amassed the empire he has. I doubt you even know the true extent of it…” Her tone shifts as she glances down, her teeth clenched.
“What do you mean?” I ask, tentatively licking my lips.
She cackles. “You don’t, do you? My resourceful boy’s all grown up, but I’ll admit that he’s turned out far more ruthless than I could imagine. Though considering who his mentor was, how could he not?”
Mentor? Hiram, the man who rescued him?
“What are you saying?”
“Oh, darling…” Her eyes gleam with mock pity. “Have you ever stopped to ask yourself how a man his age could amass such a fortune so quickly? Especially given his lack of…let’s call it a traditional upbringing. Has he told you of his family? Their legacy? Don’t tell me you are so naïve to believe he could rise above it all unscathed?”
Denying her is my first instinct. I even start to, my lips parting. But something stops me, and another question forms on my tongue instead. “Why do you care? If he is toying with me? If you don’t want Magdalene, then why are you here?”
“Why?” She chuckles, and leans back against the island, her hair spilling down her shoulders, her body positioned provocatively. “Because after more than ten damn years, my Dima has finally grown bored of waiting for me,” she declares. “He is provoking me. Drawing me out the way he knew how to all along.” She traces her bottom lip with the wet tip of her tongue, her gaze distant. “By daring to pretend I don’t exist. By replacing me with puppets.”
She rights herself, pushing past me for the foyer. “But I will remind him soon enough. This was always a game, my darling. You’re just a pawn in it...”
Her steps fade, and I crane my neck to watch her vanish around the corner. Damn. I’m shaking, my knees buckling, my wrist throbbing as I wrench it from the painful clutches of the drawer.
Then I’m already halfway to the terrace door, my fingers grasping at the handle. My first fully coherent thought is to run to the stable. Warn Vadim.
And I don’t even see the blow coming.
A force slams into me from behind, and I go down hard, landing on my side in the shadow of the dining table. Dazed, I turn, scrambling for purchase over the flooring. I only catch a glimpse of silver, flashing through the air before…
Pain!
It’s so sharp and all-consuming I can’t breathe. The air leaves my lungs, my body drained of everything but fiery agony centered around my left shoulder. Again. Again.
A distant thudding registers with the remaining logical part of my brain—pairing the sickening sound with that of a butcher, plunging a blade into a hunk of meat. Stabbing through it.
I can’t move.
I can’t even scream.
But my only coherent thought is of Vadim.
And Magda.
God, I can sense them, tramping across the terrace, their laughter raucous as my attacker retreats. I hear Magda first, her tiny voice high-pitched with excitement. “Can we have pizza again?”
“Of course,” Vadim says, sounding closer. “Go get washed up—”
“Don’t!” It takes everything I have to claw at the floor and drag myself behind the counter and out of view. “Vadim, don’t let her in!”
Silence falls with the swiftness of a candle being blown out. Or maybe I’m just losing consciousness? Either way, I feel like I’m hearing everything as if from underwater, muffled, and distant.
“Chérie,” Vadim says, his voice garbled. “I left my…at…stable…go fetch for me?”
A heartbeat later, heavy footsteps rush to my side, and I sense warm fingers prodding my forehead. “Look at me,” Vadim urges in a tone so hoarse it makes my heart ache. “Look at me!”
But I can’t.
My vision is already blurring, darkening around the edges…
Until I can’t see anything at all.
Chapter Eleven
I feel so warm. So peaceful. I almost dread opening my eyes because it feels damn good to just float in this colorless ether. At least until I hear the voice.
His voice.
“Look at me, beautiful,” he commands in a tone that cuts through the peaceful haze like a knife. “Open your eyes. Please, open your eyes.”
When I do, the world returns in blurred snippets of color and contrasting shadow. Even in this dreamy state, I’m convinced the face coming into focus will from here on out be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed.
Dark eyes framed by dizzyingly long eyelashes fixate on me, narrowed with worry. That same concern tightens the line of a gorgeous mouth, the lips so pink. The face of an angel, his expression contorts with relief as I blink to take more of him in.
“Thank God.” He seems closer, his gaze tortured. “Can you speak? Say something.”
A tattered giggle edges his words. From me? My body feels loosely connected, as if threaded together with the thinnest string. Somehow, I manage to make my lips move, my voice high-pitched and breathy.
“You are so pretty,” I tell him seriously. “The prettiest person ever. Like ever. In forever…”
He frowns, glancing beyond me. “What did you give her?”
“Due to the position of the wounds, the doctor ordered a mildly strong sedative to prevent further trauma during the suturing process,” a woman explains in crisp, hilarious tones. “The effects will wear off in a few hours.” Her voice drifts away, and another tattered giggle bubbles from my chest.
“Drugged?” I ask Vadim, amused by his worried frown. He’s sexy in his normal resting state, but when emotionally aroused—even with concern—the man looks divine. “I probably would have married you if you asked nicely,” I blurt, too warm and comfy to care about how the confession may land. “You didn’t have to drug me.”
“Drug you? I should have protected you.” He smooths his fingers through my hair as more of our surroundings come into focus. We’re in a room—plain, with light blue walls—but I don’t recognize the style as belonging to his house. Or his bedroom, for that matter…
And I have tentacles, I realize with a dazed, childish bit of horror. Tubes snake out of both my arms, feeding into various blinking, beeping machines.
“Uh, oh,” I say, still giggling harder now than ever. “Did I have an accident?”
“Get some sleep,” Vadim urges, apparently deciding that the hazy, dreamy darkness is the best place for me to be. “Sleep. I’ll be here. Always, I’ll be here.”
But will he? A voice in my head is telling me no, using one painful fact as the winning argument.
“I could give you a baby,” I tell him out loud, watching his face change as the boast registers. Rather than hopeful, he looks stricken. Like I’ve struck him. Mortally wounded. Because he knows I might be lying? But deep down, I don’t think I am.
Even if I may or may not be totally high.
“I could,” I insist, my voice breathier than ever. “I mean it. I want to—”
“Stop talking, beauty,” he commands, stroking his fingers through my hair. “All I need now is for you to rest. That is all I want from you. Your health. Nothing else.”
I nod obediently, letting my eyes close as exhaustion washes over me like a wave—but one last thought tickles my conscious mind before I can drift off completely.
“Are you shady, Vadim?” I ask him sleepily. For some reason, a bitchy voice is in my head, implying as much. Taunting as much. “Do you do bad things—”
“Sleep.” His voice resonates with way more authority this time.
But even as I comply, I sense his presence surround me persistently, more potent than any drug.
My second attempt at waking up isn’t as fun as the first. I groan even before I blink my eyes open to a dimly lit room and a tired, handsome face.
“Better?” Vadim asks, his fingers stroking my cheek.
I nod and w
ince. “I’m not high anymore,” I confess, my voice rasping. “But the tradeoff is that I feel like I got hit by a truck.”
And in a way, I have—a psychotic, blond, beautiful truck my memories tell me. I shiver at reliving them, choosing to focus on Vadim instead. He’s frowning, his jaw clenched, that muscle twitching.
“Four stab wounds. Fifty-two stitches in total,” he confesses, his tone blunt. “Spanning from your left shoulder down to your hip. They are deep, but all avoided any vital organs, thank God. Still, you will need to take care to ensure you heal without any complications. An infection could be difficult to recover from, and the surgeon warned that, given that the injuries to your shoulder sliced through muscle, you will be in pain.”
I wince. “That sounds about right.”
“Should I get the nurse?”
Grunting with the effort, I shake my head. “No. I’ll live…” Though a part of me shudders at the realization that Irina didn’t intend as much by accident. She deliberately avoided killing me. Why?
One look at the man across from me, and I can guess the answer—this was merely a warning, to him alone.
“Where is Magda?” I ask, alarmed when I don’t see her.
The hint of a smile sneaks into the corner of his mouth, so beautiful and unexpected that my physical pain is all but forgotten. “Charming your nurses into giving her more crayons, I suspect. She already has them wrapped around her finger.” His gaze softens a fraction, and I sense a part of him takes pride in his socially adept offspring. Like father like daughter.
Or could such skill stem from her mother?
I suck in a breath as my brain finally dares to connect the dots of the pain searing through my left side to the vague images circling my scattered memories. Fifty-two stitches. That beats my previous record—stemming from a drunken yacht accident—by double digits.
“Irina,” I croak, and Vadim stiffens, his gaze unreadable. But this time, he isn’t hiding behind his wall. “She attacked me—”
“I don’t know how she got in,” he swears, leaning forward to grip my hand, unconsciously pressing my fingers against his chest, near his heart. He’s seated beside me, his rumpled dress shirt betraying at least a few hours of vigil by my bedside—and something inside me heats and melts. At least in the brief second wherein I forget his psycho ex-partner in crime.