Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“I don’t think we should tell him yet.” Zoya and Andrik gasp in sync. As my eyes bounce between theirs, I say, “He deserves to know the truth, and I will tell him, but I don’t think now is the right time.”
They see what everyone does when you look at Mikhail—a cocky, confident man. That isn’t what I’ve seen reflecting in his beautifully tormented eyes over the past few days. I see the boy hiding behind the cloak his grandfather and father forced him to wear when he was a toddler. The facade all men wear to stop them from getting hurt again.
Mikhail was told for years that he was unlovable, and his belief that I had left him at the altar would have validated their lies.
With Zoya and Andrik still needing convincing, but unwilling to share parts of Mikhail he has only ever shared with me, I say, “You’re his family, his one constant. I don’t want to take that away from him.” I lock eyes with Zoya. “He only just got you back. I don’t want anything to take you away from him either.” I drink in their bond not even the massive pain in my chest can discount. “This could affect that.”
“I understand,” Zoya says. “That’s why Andrik made the decision he did. But I don’t think keeping this from Mikhail is the right thing to do. He thinks you broke his heart, Emerson. He thinks you left him.”
“He does,” I agree, fighting not to cry as Zoya’s hormones forced her to do during her caution. “But even believing that, he still helped me. He still went through with this…” I mimic her earlier wave, my hand freezing halfway when I recall how he helped me last night. “He still held back my hair despite his dislike of vomit.”
When Mikhail was a child, he mistook a bowl of vomit for a bowl of porridge. His mother couldn’t make it to the bathroom in enough time, and since Mikhail was in a hurry to rush back to Andrik’s side, he scooped and swallowed too fast to be cautioned by the kitchen staff.
As memories of Mikhail wiping a smidge of vomit from my bottom lip last night filter through my head, I shift the tension by saying with a laugh, “I also have ways I can encourage his forgiveness in a manner neither of you can.”
“That is true.” Zoya giggles, wiping at her wet cheeks, the humor in my tone lifting some of the tension hanging heavily in the air.
Our plan seems as firm as concrete until Andrik says, “And if he finds out before you tell him?”
I take some time to deliberate. It is nowhere near as long as it deserves, but I’ve lost too much time to dilly-dally now. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Until then…”
I leap to my feet like my legs aren’t as wobbly as Jell-O before shooing them out of Mikhail’s office, doubling their shocked expressions.
Chapter 29
Mikhail
My stomach riots as I stumble through the front door of Zelenolsk Manor. What should be a familiar scent of home is tainted and murky. It stirs up bad memories and has me grateful I left the first bar I came across with a recently opened bottle of whiskey.
The whispered murmurs of the staff not accustomed to seeing a Dokovic so out of sorts blend into the cacophony that matches the mayhem in my heart as I dismiss them with an arrogant wave of my hand.
Whiskey sloshes out of the bottle and onto the floor when I jackknife toward the owner’s suite.
“Mik—”
“Leave!” I shout, cutting Kolya off before he can get in a single word.
He looks like he wants to argue but chooses life instead.
After a brief dip of his chin, he gestures for the housekeeping staff to leave before he follows their brisk exit, leaving me as alone and isolated as I feel.
My feet drag, heavy and uncooperative, as I make my way down the hallway. The dim lighting from the overhead fixtures cast long shadows, making the narrow space feel even more constrictive.
My shoulder clips the edge of an antique hallway table halfway down, sending a vase crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoes through the quiet, and I curse under my breath.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my shoulder.
The pain is sharp, but it is nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
I drank like a fish over the past several hours to both numb the pain and avoid the conversation my heart wants to have with my head.
No matter how many shots I downed in a dingy watering hole five clicks from Zelenolsk, my heart’s begs didn’t lessen. Its rebelliousness meant I downed liquor too fast to be responsible and uncaring that I had to leave my custom Irbis in the unsecured lot of a rundown bar.