Andrei (Quintessence Book 7)

by Serena Akeroyd

  Sawyer hadn’t said a word, neither had Kurt. They were both by the door, standing like sentinels as they overlooked the interview.

  “You can’t say that you attacked him because he was stalking you, Devon.”

  Against his ergonomic monster of a desk chair, Charles Llewelyn rocked back. Not a hair out of place or a crease in sight of his four thousand pound suit. He fit in among the clean, minimalist lines of the office, but Devon didn’t.

  In his ragged jeans and old leather jacket and ratty tee, he looked like he couldn’t afford to press the doorbell to this law firm, never mind hire the main partner to defend him.

  “But he was,” Devon countered, rocking back in the seat. “I warned him to leave me alone, when he didn’t. . . .” He shrugged. “I was defending myself.”

  “There’s no proof you were being stalked, mon,” Sawyer grumbled, speaking for the first time since Llewelyn had started reeling off the potential sentencing issues that lay ahead for Devon if he lost the case.

  With his grandfather not having contacted him with any news yet, good or bad, Andrei had felt it wise to attend this meeting.

  Vasily was a Tsar in Russia but his spider-like reach only extended so far. There was always a chance he’d put too much faith in his grandfather’s capabilities, even though he hoped he hadn’t.

  Devon might appear calm now, but Andrei couldn’t see him dealing well with being separated from them, even for a short length of time. And blyad, Andrei wouldn’t deal well with it, either.

  Just the prospect of Devon being locked inside a cell made him want to pull his hair out.

  His own anxiety and nerves were making him wish he’d brought some heartburn medicine from home. He should have known Devon would drive him to overdose on antacids this morning.

  Running a hand over his head, he murmured, “Devon wouldn’t say he was being stalked if he wasn’t.”

  “There are several articles that discuss Devon’s mental state and suggest he’s paranoid."

  Sawyer hissed out a breath. “Those articles were about a leak we were having. Corporate espionage, mon. He was bang on the money, too. We did have a bug in one of our company offices in New York.”

  “You couldn’t report that, though, could you? So, all the prosecution knows is that Devon is renowned for being paranoid, so why not on this score, too? A mad genius, infamously famous for being kooky, has gotten it into his head that someone’s following him, so he attacks?” Llewelyn shook his head. “No. That route leads to a prison sentence. We need to focus on the fact that where Devon beat his attacker was in a nasty part of the city.”

  “What were you even doing in Peckham? God, Devon,” Sean half-growled, leaning forward and pressing his elbows to his knees as he glowered at him.

  “I took the train there.” He shrugged. “I wanted to clear my mind.”

  Andrei sighed. “Since when did you need to clear your mind outside of the house?”

  “Is that rhetorical?” Devon demanded, twisting around in the seat to glare at him.

  He winced. “I guess.”

  Devon settled back. “Look. I took the train, and Horowich was there at the station with me when I hopped on. He followed me to Peckham Rye and got off at the same stop I did.”

  “Maybe he was going home,” Llewelyn inserted calmly, earning himself a narrow-eyed stare from Devon.

  “Haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “Not without the bruises you bestowed upon him, no,” this time, the attorney’s voice was dry. “Even if I’d seen a before picture, he’d be unrecognizable now. You showed true rage when you attacked him.”

  “He was stalking me,” Devon snarled. “I told him not to. He didn’t listen. I warned him.”

  “He claims he was returning from work.”

  “Where does he work?”

  Llewelyn leafed through his files. “Paddington.”

  “And where does he live?”

  “Whitechapel.”

  Devon snorted. “You haven’t looked at a map recently, have you? Or traveled on the underground?”

  Sean frowned. “Charles, he isn’t wrong. You wouldn’t take the tube at a Kensington station if you worked in Paddington, and the trains wouldn’t take you to Peckham if you lived in Whitechapel.”

  “He claims he was having lunch in Kensington.”

  “And decided to take the long way home?” Devon scoffed, then folded his arms across his chest. “Why haven’t the police picked up on this? Did they just decide I was crazy and therefore in the wrong?”

  Andrei dug out his cellphone from his pocket and plucked out Google Maps. As he studied the different subway stations in the area, he clucked his tongue. “Someone didn’t do their homework.”

  Llewelyn simply blinked. “Whether or not Mr. Horowich was stalking Devon doesn’t give him leave to beat the shit out of him.” The attorney pursed his lips and rocked back in his seat. “Sean, you know that’s not how this works. It isn’t jungle justice.”

  Sean had known Llewelyn for a long time. Long enough for him to call in this favor. Llewelyn’s caseload was enough to drown him, but he’d gathered enough time to represent Devon.

  “If he was stalking him, then Devon would have a justifiable reason to feel threatened, though,” Kurt countered.

  “And that would give him a reason to go to the police with his concerns, not break the man’s orbital socket, dislocate his shoulder, and puncture his lung via two broken ribs!”

  Andrei winced. Since when had Devon been able to rain hell on a man like that?

  Even as he was wincing, though, he had to face facts. Devon had done that to another person when, as far as he knew, Dev had never hurt anyone in his life. Not even his fucking father who’d practically handed his mother the razor blades she’d used to slash her wrists.

  Though things had been unstable at home because of Camilla’s passing, Devon hadn’t shown any signs of deterioration–nothing to this extent. And though he felt like he was biased–because hell, this was Devon–Andrei knew that he wouldn’t have done anything like this unless he truly had felt threatened.

  But the law, as Llewelyn had stated, didn’t work that way.

  “You think a sentence is likely, Charles?” Sean fretted, clasping his hands together as he hung them between his legs. The way he was crouched forward stated that his asking the question was a formality. He already knew the answer.

  “Yes.”

  Andrei felt them all, save Devon, deflate in the room. Why he was so calm, Andrei didn’t know. Andrei wanted to shake him, demand to know what the fuck he’d been thinking of when he’d gone after Horowich the way he had.

  Didn’t the bastard care that this would wreck Sascha?

  On the two previous occasions where they’d had meetings with Llewelyn, they’d encouraged her to stay at home with Tin and had fed her positive news. So much so that she thought Devon was close to being free and fucking clear because it was all a ‘misunderstanding.’

  How were they going to break the truth to her?

  The answer was they couldn’t. His grandfather would have to come through for them, even if Andrei had to bribe him with the promise of several month-long visits to Moscow this coming year.

  Devon couldn’t go to jail.

  And that was that.

  “What are we making, mama?”

  Tin stared at her expectantly, and she had to laugh. His eyes were like sparkly blue marbles glinting up at her. The intelligence within them was enough to boggle the mind, and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that she asked, “What do you think we’re making, Tin?” She waved her hand at the ingredients on the marble counter.

  He tilted his head to the side, that mop of blond curls falling over his forehead as he scowled at the flour, eggs, butter, and coconut sugar. “I don’t know. You make too many things with that stuff.”

  She grinned, then from under the counter, began shaking a bag at him.

  “Chocolate chips?” he cried. “Coo
kies?”

  She pressed her finger to her mouth. “Who don’t we tell?”

  “Papa Sawyer,” Tin whispered.

  “And why don’t we tell him?”

  “Because he’s an alien.”

  She snorted at that. “I didn’t teach you that one. Who did?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Daddy Devon.”

  She was used to him mixing up his Papas and Daddies, but it always amused the hell out of her when he said their names afterward. She’d never thought she’d be in a relationship that required first names be tagged on after the title, but she wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.

  “You know that’s mean of Daddy Devon, don’t you?”

  Tin, of course, shrugged—his hero could do no wrong. “I don’t see why. I love him if he’s an alien or not.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, baby,” she teased, and then she moved around the counter to haul him onto the chilly marble. He wiggled his bum a second, prompting her to ask, “Need a cushion?” They were already breaking enough food hygiene laws to break Devon out in a rash, but hell, what was one more busted rule?

  “Nope.” This time, when he wiggled, she realized he was excited.

  It had been quite a while since they’d done this together. Something last night’s conversation over Camilla had urged her to remember.

  The cookie recipe wasn’t something she needed a recipe book for. It was glued to her retinas, but she prompted Tin, helping him do most of the lifting, even if he helped her with the weighing—he used a spoon to measure out the flour and sugar, and didn’t even get much on the counter. She figured she had Devon to thank for that.

  He wasn’t exactly a neat freak in his office, but in other parts of his life, he was, and Tin, ever prudent when it came down to copying Devon, had noticed that. She wasn’t even sure how that was possible, but when she’d watched Devon coloring with Tin, she’d learned a few things. Because Devon stuck his tongue out as he colored between the lines, so did their son. And Tin never went out of the lines, either.

  This kid was spooky.

  It was a seriously good thing she was used to being around weirdos.

  God love them.

  Mixing it with a spoon, she broke another rule and let him lick it clean as she dosed out the mix onto a baking tray. He sat there, watching as she placed them in the pre-heated oven, and clapped his hands as he glued his eyes to the clock on the back wall.

  “They’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, Tin. When’s that?”

  “When the big hand gets to number three.”

  “Good boy.” She ruffled his hair and dipped down to press a kiss to his cheek. His little arms clambered around her neck to hold her close, and she picked him up, letting his legs hang loose as she whirled in a circle. His giddy laugh had her joining him, and that was how Sawyer and Devon found them.

  “What’s this I smell?” Sawyer asked in a grumbly voice, but he had a grin on his face.

  “Cookies!” Tin squealed happily, immediately forgetting their vow not to say a word about the sweet treat.

  “Chocolate chip?” Devon inquired, hurrying over to the oven to peer through the glass. “Score,” he declared, pumping his fist—Tin quickly repeated both the word and the gesture.

  Even if the gesture almost had him punching her nose.

  “Easy there, champ,” Sawyer remarked, chuckling as he hefted their son out of Sascha’s arms and above his head. “Seat yer’sen down, wee laddie.”

  Giggling, Tin perched himself on Sawyer’s shoulders and stayed there, even as his father took a seat at the dining table. She was used to the sight, even though it was still funny as hell. Tin, though, liked being tall, and he couldn’t get much taller than this.

  “How long?” Devon demanded, shoving his fists in his pockets as he stared longingly at the oven.

  “When, Tin?”

  “When the big hand gets to number three,” he cried again, twisting to look at Devon. “I helped, Daddy. I counted everything out.”

  “Good boy, Tin,” Devon immediately congratulated, but he didn’t turn around, just kept his eyes on the oven.

  “Do you guys want something to drink? Eat?”

  Sawyer shook his head. “Whisht, lass. We just came to see you.”

  “Did the meeting go well?” They’d all headed out this morning.

  Sawyer grimaced. “Not particularly.”

  “Need some sugar?” she teased, his tone pricking her with concern.

  “Yes. Your sugar and cookies, too,” Devon mumbled, honest to a fault.

  Laughing, she murmured, “You’re a little early to that party. You know they’re better if you let them cool some.” Hers got chewier, and Devon preferred them like that.

  “No. I need one sooner than that. Andrei’s changed the timeline on us,” he complained.

  “I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose,” she replied, wondering why he sounded peeved. Devon usually thrived on that kind of pressure.

  “Andrei doesn’t care if he does something on purpose or not. Pompous. …” Devon mumbled something that had Sawyer snorting but her tugging at her ear.

  “Was I supposed to hear that or not?” she questioned drily.

  “Not,” Sawyer replied, then he shifted his gaze from her to her charm bracelet. “He’s just miffed because we’re going to have to go to Veronia sooner rather than later.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Andrei knows I have to work myself up to flying,” Devon countered, stacking his hands on his hips as he turned to glower at them. “He knows that when I have to go near the sea, I need even more time.”

  “He gave you three months, Devon,” Sawyer groused. “Three. He’s shifting it forward by a month.”

  “We’re going next month?” Sascha inserted, her pitch soaring in surprise.

  Sawyer nodded, but there was a plea on his face—one that begged her not to make a fuss about it. “Yes. Aren’t you looking forward to seeing Madela?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I can’t wait.”

  Devon sniffed. “You don’t have to wait. Not now Andrei’s messed everything up.”

  “Is my name being taken in vain?” Andrei commented wryly as he stepped down the staircase, his feet making an appearance before his face did.

  “In vain? Papa Sawyer, what’s that mean?” Tin asked, tugging at Sawyer’s hair.

  “Nothing for you to worry yer head about, wee lad,” Sawyer replied, and though Tin pouted, he settled down, his eyes big as he took in his father’s face.

  Andrei walked over to him and tugged Tin off Sawyer’s shoulders and hauled him onto his own. Sascha swore the child had to feel more like a bag of flour than a little boy. The way they lugged him about—it was no wonder he enjoyed flying, the one difference between him and Devon.

  When Andrei strolled over to the oven, he wrapped his arm around Devon’s shoulder and said, “All will be well.”

  She frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be?” Why did she feel like two conversations were going on here?

  Andrei didn’t answer, just cleared his throat and, to Devon, murmured, “Stop grumbling. You’ll love it there. You know you will.”

  “Why?” Devon was definitely pouting—most unlike him, Sascha thought with a frown.

  “Because it’s warm. And that means Sascha can sunbathe.”

  Devon’s eyes, like Tin’s earlier, rounded as he turned to look at her. But she held up her hands. “Oh no. I’m not suffering with premature wrinkles just to make boy genius over there happy.”

  Devon pouted, but Andrei squinted at her. “What do I have to do to make the bikini happen?” he inquired.

  She snorted. “Buy me one first.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Done.”

  “I’m not having you pawn that off onto your PA.” The last thing she wanted was to tell Jane her damn size. “You want that to happen, you have to go into Harvey Nicks with me.”

  “I can deal with that particular torment if you try them on, and I
get to watch.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Devon quickly inserted.

  “Me, three,” Sawyer said on a grin.

  “Me, four,” Tin commented, his voice squeaky with an excitement that told Sascha he had no idea what he was signing up for. The kid didn’t mind shopping, but that was because it usually involved him getting new stuff. This would be about her, and therefore, it would bore him senseless. Not that it made him mean, it was just that the most normal thing about him was his attention span.

  He was thirty months after all.

  Sascha pursed her lips. “You can’t buy me off that easily, Andrei Kirov.”

  His grin said he could do whatever he wanted, and that made her narrow her eyes at him. “Whatever my lady desires,” he said magnanimously.

  “I’ll think of something,” she retorted, and was saved by the bell when the oven timer went off. She didn’t need to move, though, Devon had grabbed the oven mitts and was opening the door and grabbing the tray before she could do more than blink.

  She was pretty proud when Devon, about to dump the tray on the heating pad, paused as Tin said, “No, Daddy, that’s wrong. You have to put the cookies on that.” He pointed to the cooling tray.

  Sascha beamed at him. “Well remembered, Tin. We’ll make a chef out of you yet.”

  “Give me a baker any day of the week,” Devon retorted, and Tin, sensing the praise in the words, puffed out his chest.

  She laughed at the sight, then asked, “Where are we staying in Madela?”

  “In one of the Royal residences.”

  That had her eyes widening. “Seriously?”

  Andrei grinned. “Thought you’d get a kick out of that.”

  “Just a tad,” she whispered. “What kind of royal residence?”

  “Xavier DeSauvier is my liaison. I told him I’d be bringing a party of six with me. He said he’d make arrangements that would put us close to the seat.”

  “What seat?”

  “The government’s seat,” he explained. “Madela is the capital, but it’s pretty big. The Royals’ main residence isn’t far from their Parliament.”

  “And that’s where you’ll be working?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure. I get the feeling King Edward does a lot of work at the Palace.” Andrei shrugged. “It seems like he’s the one we need to please. Not the politicians.”