by Shandi Boyes
“Gotovy?”
I stop staring into space when Eda moves to stand in front of me. She’s been showing me the ropes today. She’s kind, around the same age as me, and the half of her face not mottled by an angry scar is extremely beautiful. We’ve barely had a minute to discuss what happened to her face, but we got the basics out of the way within the first hour.
My teeth nearly cracked from how hard I held my jaw when she told me she has been a maid here for the past fifteen years. If my calculations are right, and she is close to my age, that means she has been imprisoned here since she was ten. That’s inconceivable even to consider. At an age where she should have been playing with dolls, she was serving men who can’t comprehend having your period doesn’t mean you’re ready to become a woman.
I barely know Eda, but I hate what she’s been through. It also makes me worry about my own future. She’s proof you can survive years here if you’re willing to put in the hard work, but am I as strong as her? Can I do this for another sixty-plus years?
When Eda raises her brow, prompting me to answer, I nod. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Remember, serve from the right, and don’t make eye contact.” Her English is poor, but I have no troubles deciphering her instructions. We’re staff. Nothing more.
With a soup filled with more goodness than what we consumed an hour earlier balanced on my hip, I enter the dining room on Eda’s heel. It’s the most packed it’s been all day. Nearly every seat around a table that could seat fifty is filled with a bottom, and the majority of the attendees are male.
After squaring my shoulders, I move to the lower end of the table. Eda is serving bread to the main players at the hierarchy end, so I’ll start with people more on my end of the scale—a scale I no longer have a rank on.
“What is this?”
A man with a scar sliced down his right eye and a thick, bushy beard snatches my hand halfway between the soup dish and his bowl I just finished filling with borscht.
I try to maneuver myself out of his hold without creating a scene, but his grip is too tight. Instead, I lower my eyes to the tabletop. “It’s borscht.” Borscht is a Russian staple made with beets and various meats, often served with sour cream.
My simple reply agitates the man more, his grip on my arm tightening. “I know what it is, but why are you serving it to me? Do I look like a man who eats slops?”
The slur of his words makes me want to nod, but I hold back the urge—just barely. Now is not the time to let my personality shine. “This is just an appetizer; much heartier food will follow shortly.”
I don’t know what I said that angers him, but his grip tightens enough to make me whimper. He’s holding me so painfully I feel like my wrist is seconds from cracking.
Before I can serve the borscht into his lap, a voice accented with the slight twang of an American accent says, “Remove your hand from her immediately before I remove yours permanently.”
I’d like to say Asher has come to my defense, but that isn’t the case. The voice doesn’t belong to a man. It is strong, unwavering, and feminine.
When the goon releases me from his grasp, I take a step back before sheepishly raising my eyes. Eda was adamant I was not to make eye contact with any of the guests, but doesn’t their assistance deserve some form of commendation?
Asher’s icy blue gaze reflects back at me, but it’s fanned by the fine lines every woman in her mid-fifties hates. Although I haven’t laid my eyes on this lady for over a decade, I know who she is. She is Asher’s mother, the monarch of the Yury crew. Her female anatomy means she’ll never reach the status of Asher or his father, but she is a well-respected and integral part of their realm. She is a beautiful lady who has only grown more alluring with time. I admired her golden locks and porcelain skin for years when I was a little girl and often dreamed I’d one day grow up as strong and as venerated as her. My mother emulated her strength when they were friends, and I was determined to do the same.
“Leave now.”
I assume Farah is speaking to me until the scrape of a chair bellows across the room. With his chin tucked into his chest and his sneer on the down low, the bearded man exits the dining room via a door on my left.
Farah waits for the door he rushed through to stop swinging before returning her eyes to mine. They’re not glistening with the amused twinkle I often saw when I was little. They are filled with irritation more than anything. “Why are you here, serving?”
I’m about to speak up when I’m interrupted for the second time this evening. “Because I gave her two choices. She either serves my men food or... ” Asher’s silence speaks volumes.
Farah’s eyes snap to her son as quickly as mine. He is seated at the very end of the table, meaning he had a prime view of proceedings the entire time. I don’t know whether to be sickened by his lack of assistance or grateful. I don’t want to owe him anything, but the fact he sat by and watched me be rough-handled reveals he’s stepped far away from the little boy who used to play hide and seek with Vaughn and me while our parents talked shop.
“Zariah was not brought here as a plaything, Asher. She is to be your wife.”
The lack of commotion from the forty-plus pairs of eyes watching our exchange exposes they’re not shocked by Farah’s disclosure, although I am certain they’re stunned by my disheveled appearance. I can’t say I blame them. I look like a wreck.
After shifting her focus back to me, Farah points to the now vacant spot in front of me. “Put down the soup.”
I jump to the command in her voice, only startling when Asher growls, “If you do, our terms will be renegotiated.”
I freeze, truly unsure who to listen to. Farah is Asher’s mother, however, she doesn’t outrank her son. And I don’t want to renegotiate my terms with Asher. He made it abundantly clear this morning that I won’t like the terms he brings forward the second time around.
The woman I’ve admired for years shines in Farah’s eyes when she adds to her request that I put down the appetizer I’m serving by inviting me to join her at the other end of the table. I can see the silent affirmation in her eyes, the one that says if I don’t reveal my backbone now, I’ll never get the chance, but she’s not seeing the entire picture. Asher isn’t just angry he’s being forced to marry me. He thinks I orchestrated Dominique’s demise. I don’t need more reasons to piss him off. He already has plenty.
My voice is weak when I ask the man on my right, “Would you like one scoop or two?”
The disappointment in Farah’s eyes cuts like a knife, but it has nothing on the fury that rages through me from Asher’s smug grin. He thinks he won. I’m inclined to believe him.
“If you serve these men now, you’ll serve them for the rest of your life. Is that what you want, Zariah? The girl I remember wished to walk in her mother’s footsteps; you won’t do that if you don’t stand up for yourself.”
“I want to live.” My words are barely whispers, so I doubt Farah can hear them, but it felt good expressing them. That’s the only reason I’m agreeing to Asher’s terms, because my will to live has exceeded my desire to die—for now.
My eyes rocket up when Farah replies, “Then live. Show them your life is worth fighting for. Make them see that no matter what they do or say to you, your spirit will never break.” She slaps her hand on the table, rattling the dishware. “You are Zariah Volkov, daughter of Ari Volkov, and soon-to-be wife of Asher Yury. You do not bow for anyone.” She scans the room brimming with men. “Let alone vyperduschs too stupid to see your wealth.”
Her wrath is for her son... although some of the men seem to miss that fact.
When one stands to his feet in a hurry, I take a step back. His fury is uncontained with clenched fists and a tight jaw. He looks seconds from detonating, but instead of his anger being projected at me, he has Farah in his sights.
The man attempts to suspend his hand mid-air when Asher snarls, “Better make it good, because that slap is the last thing you’ll ever do,”
but it does him no good.
The back of his hand barely scrapes Farah’s cheek, but the frenzy in Asher’s eyes makes it seem so much more. He storms our way, his gun removed from the harness on his hip before I secure half a breath. I blink three times when, in two quick movements, he pins the man to the ground by his throat. When he digs the barrel of his gun into his left eye, I assume he is issuing the man a threat, that his constant plea for forgiveness will see him carted out of here with perhaps a black eye or possibly a broken nose. I had no inkling his life would be claimed in front of me and forty-plus witnesses.
Asher fires one shot directly into the eye his gun is pinching before popping another bullet between his brows. Because he is low to the ground, none of the guests are subjected to the brain matter coating Asher’s boots and face. Soup, on the other hand, it splashes up their pants cuffs and dots their shoes with a vibrant red slosh when the ceramic dish I’m holding crashes to the floor so I can muffle my scream. I’ve seen many horrible things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve witnessed a murder without a morsel of remorse crossing the executioner’s features.
When Asher’s eyes lift to mine, unappreciative that his clothes are covered with steaming hot borscht, stifling my screams is the least of my problems. He’s angry, ropeable, and moments from claiming his second life in under a minute, and once again, all his fury is devoted to me.
I hate myself for running. I hate that I’m acting so cowardly, I’d rather run than face the consequences of my actions head on, but when you’re facing a battle you’ll never win, sometimes the best thing you can do is run.
And that’s what I’m doing. I am running.
I run and run and run. Past Eda and Farah watching me with wide eyes, down the halls I charged through earlier when I was outrunning Asher for the first time, and through the door I slammed shut in the wee hours of this morning, except this time, there’s no lock for me to latch, and Asher is chasing me down instead of letting me flee without prosecution.
When Asher barges through the door with more force than he used to kick it down, I snatch a letter opener off his desk and brace it in front of my body. I’m shaking like a leaf, and my eyes are brimming with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Farah was right. I’m stronger than the woman I’ve been portraying the past few days.
Asher’s eyes drop to the letter opener at the same time his lips curl into a snarl. “Put it down.”
Tears threaten to spill down my face when I shake my head.
His eyes are fixated on the weapon I’m brandishing, but he must hear my non-verbal reply. “I’m not playing, Zariah, put it down!”
When he takes a step closer to me, I slice the letter opener through the air. I aim for his chest, but end up slicing his forearm instead. My hit barely scratches him, but it doubles the anger firing in his icy blue gaze.
With a growl, he pushes off his feet and charges my way. He tackles me onto his bed, expelling the wind from my lungs as quickly as my skin heats with excitement. Although his hit knocks me sideways, I maintain my grip on my instrument of choice. I can’t use it because Asher has my wrist pinned above my head, but it feels good knowing it’s still in my possession.
Tired of this life and everything that comes with it, I kick and scratch at him. I call him horrible names and grunt like a wild animal. He’s holding my body hostage to the mattress with his hips, but otherwise Asher accepts my assault without further retaliation. He somewhat encourages it.
“Yell at me, Zariah. Kick me and bite me, because at least then you won’t portray the coward you just did!” He thrusts his hips forward, sinking us deeper into the mattress. “As far as anyone is aware, you are the soon-to-be wife of Asher Yury, most feared man in Russia, yet you let a low-ranked goon rough-handle you like a worthless whore.” He brings his face to within an inch of mine. “Zimiyi was gripping your wrist so hard, he was seconds from snapping it, and what did you do? Nothing! Not a single fucking thing! Why?! Why didn’t you fight him as you are me now? Why didn’t you take him down as I did Ruslan? You can kick and scratch me, but you let a pathetic man like Zimiyi scare you! Why, Zariah?!”
“Because I’m not afraid of you!” I’ve kicked and screamed so hard, my words are barely whispers. “That’s why I can fight you, because I know you won’t hurt me. You promised when we were kids that you’d never let anyone hurt me. That includes you, Asher, so I’m not afraid of you! I hate you, and the man you have become, but I’m not afraid of you!”
My words fuel the fire roaring in his gut. He digs his thumb and index finger into my cheeks so profoundly, my legs immediately still. I’m not scared, more fascinated by the fervor in his wintry gaze. He’s staring down at me with his nostrils flaring and his heart raging. I can feel it pounding into me by the parts of our bodies that are intimately joined. It’s beating as erratically as mine, with an equal amount of confusion and anger, but there’s no threat in his eyes.
Not until he growls, “You’re not afraid of me?”
His grip on my face makes it impossible for me to shake my head, but I don’t need to. He can see the truth in my eyes, smell it on my skin. I should be feeling terror having this large, brutal mass murderer staring at me like he wants to gut my insides as viciously as he ended Ruslan’s life only minutes ago, but for some reason, I’m not. I see the boy he once was hiding in his dark, tormented eyes. He often joked that he was born without a heart, but I know that isn’t true. I’ve seen it, heard it beating under my ear. He isn’t the monster he wants me to believe he is.
“You should be afraid. Very much so. Because I know you’re keeping secrets from me, and when I find out what they are, and who they involve, you won’t just be scared, you’ll be grieving.”
“The only person I’m grieving is you. The boy you once were, the teen who put family before anyone. That’s the only person I’ll ever grieve. To think I was once obsessed with you... God! I was an idiot. You never cared about anyone but yourself, so why did I waste so much of my time worrying about you?”
I fight him for a few more minutes before exhaustion renders me still. I’m so tired of this life—so goddamn tired. You have no idea how exhausting it is doing nothing until you’re forced to do it somewhere else.
Realizing I’ve given up, Asher lowers his lips to my ear. I expect my near tear-filled admission to make him say something more profound than this: “Get cleaned up and ready for bed. You have an early start tomorrow.”
The arrogance in his tone makes me want to fight all over again, but I’m too busy holding in a moan. His breath is heavy on my ear, as hot and as mind-hazing as the girth I feel digging into my thigh. He’s thick and hard, as if his hips weren’t pinning me to the bed in anger.
When he climbs off me, I repress my body’s inane reaction to his closeness. We’re fighting, not making love, and he didn’t just threaten me, he threatened my entire existence. That’s not something I can take lightly.
Furthermore, he has the blood of a now dead man on his face, yet all I am doing is dreaming while I’m awake.
I must be insane.
Chapter Twelve
Asher
I wait for Zariah to slide up my bed before holding out my hand palm side up. She’s still clutching my letter opener as she did when I followed her into our room, but she’s missing the fury her eyes held when she used it to slice my arm open.
I understand her anger. The rage I faced when I entered the dining room to discover Zimiyi clutching her wrist was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It was a foreign feeling, one that had me torn between wanting to beat him senseless for touching something I own and stepping back to see how Zariah handled it.
If she were half the woman my mother claims she is, she would have fought.
She didn’t. She backed away like a coward, her fight nothing like I anticipated. She acted so weak and meek, she would have let Zimiyi snap her wrist without a word seeping from her lips. That isn’t a woman I need at my side. I need someone strong
and impenetrable. Someone who’s been through the worst and came out the other end stronger. I need someone who’ll fight even when the odds are against her.
That person is not Zariah.
After dumping the letter opener onto my rumpled bed, Zariah makes her way to her room. Her feet stop pattering across the floorboards when I say, “Shower in my bathroom. I don’t want you leaving this room tonight.” When her throat works hard to swallow, like she’s preparing to bite back, I add a warning to the threat in my tone. “Argue with me and see where it gets you.”
When she rolls her eyes, I pad closer to her, my steps slow and calculated. They hold more threat than any my tongue could issue. She’s fraying my control. She has me kicking down doors and chasing her when she flees me. This isn’t me. I don’t react in anger. I also don’t play games. But I will for her. I want her to fight me, to snap at me with the cheek she held when she was a girl. If she gives as good as she’s getting, then maybe she’ll survive here longer than either of us are predicting, and then maybe, just maybe, she’ll let who she’s covering for slip.
What I said earlier was true. I know she’s keeping secrets from me, and I’m not solely referring to Dominique’s death. She’s covering for someone. I just need to stop letting her fuck with my head so I can find out who.
I convinced myself last night that I could extract the truth from her without a single problem arising. I’m a cold and calculated man who’d never let a woman weaken me, but she is. She’s weakening me, and I don’t fucking like it.
I’m pummeled with a new type of anger when a tear slips down Zariah’s cheek. I’m not a good man. I’ve amassed more deaths than I have friends the past decade. I’m aloof, merciless, and my heart is made out of stone, but this, I can’t handle this. I’d rather have her dissect my nuts with a blunt knife than watch her cry. I don’t do tears, especially when they’re coming from a girl I swore I’d never make cry. I was only a child when I made my pledge, but I had every intention of keeping it.