Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
"I just got off the phone with Rafail and then Zoya."
That catches my attention. "Zoya? What’s going on?"
"Oh, she was the one who helped me decide what you needed. Polina had to go somewhere with Rafail, but Zoya told me what food to cook and what supplies to get."
I nod. "I’d really like to get to know Zoya better. Seriously, can you please eat some of this food with me?"
He sits down, dutifully picks up a slice of toast, and takes a bite, locking eyes with me like it’s some kind of serious business negotiation.
"O’Rourke warned us about Interpol," he says between bites. "They’re breathing down our necks. They’re working with the Russian authorities, and they’re looking for you."
I shrug, rolling my eyes. "I figured they would eventually."
He gives me a sharp look. "Oh shit. Seriously?"
I nod. "Of course. It was only a matter of time."
His jaw tightens. "Yeah, and the Irish won’t cover for you. The only reason they’re not cooperating with Interpol is because they fucking hate them and formed an alliance with us."
That part surprises me.
"So I take it you and Rafail aren’t too keen on the idea of me running again?"
I can’t quite keep the petulance out of my voice.
I don’t like feeling like a caged bird.
But I’m so damn tired of running.
"Do you and Rafail have a plan?" I ask curiously.
I take another bite of fruit, then more eggs, chasing it down with the pink electrolyte drink. It’s actually pretty good.
My plan has always been to run.
Run from my father.
Run from Rafail.
Run from Matvei when I was being chased.
But what other options do I have if running isn’t one of them?
Matvei watches me carefully. "For now, Interpol believes you’re still in London. They have no idea that you’re here with me."
"And the only one who does—the only wildcard—is O’Rourke," I finish for him.
His gaze darkens.
"Tell me one more time," he says, voice low. "Were you or were you not involved with O’Rourke?"
I shake my head, answering honestly. "Of course not. I told you—the Irish wanted nothing to do with me. They used me as a contractor, but I was always kept at arm’s length." I give him a serious look. “And even if I were, you and I both know you’d risk the entire alliance if you did anything about that.”
His eyes narrow. “Worth it.”
I shake my head. "Matvei, you know The Undertaker’s reputation as well as I do."
He blows out a breath, shaking his head. "Like fuck I do. Doesn’t mean O’Rourke isn’t fucking obsessed with you.”
I give him an incredulous look. “O’Rourke? I don’t think so.”
He stares and mutters to himself, “She has no fucking idea…”
“What? How dangerous he is? Of course I do. I was there for years while—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “How fucking gorgeous you are. How any man gets one look at you and needs to have you.”
I stare at him, and just because I don’t know what to say, I reach for a ripe strawberry, but before I can take a bite—
A spasm of pain shoots across my back, wrapping around my abdomen like barbed wire.
The fork clatters to the plate.
Matvei pales. "Are you okay?"
I grit my teeth, shaking my head, trying to push the tray off my lap.
I need to curl up again.
I need to—
Matvei moves fast.
In one swift motion, he grabs the tray, sets it aside, and eases me onto my side.
His huge hand spans my abdomen, pressing flat across my belly. With his other hand, he massages my lower back, strong and firm, working over the knots of tension with slow, practiced strokes.
It feels so good.
So fucking good, as if his hands were meant to do this.
I breathe through it, feeling the contracting pain lessen little by little.
Over and over, he massages my back, whispering something soft in Russian, but I don’t quite catch it.
"There you go. Breathe," he murmurs.
I feel like I’m in labor, and he’s my doula.
And for the first time, a pang of grief hits me so hard I’m not prepared for it.
It slams into my chest, twisting something deep inside me, aching so fiercely that I struggle to breathe.
My throat tightens.
I shake my head, so fucking sad.
And I know when I tell him the truth, he won’t have any use for me anymore.
All this time, I’ve been wondering how to get away.
And now, my greatest fear is that he’ll want to get rid of me.
I’m so fucked up.
The pain subsides enough that I can think again, and when I do, I force myself to speak.
"I need to use the bathroom," I whisper.
My body is tight, aching from holding onto the pain.
Matvei helps me sit up.
"Of course," he says gently. "Let me know if you need anything."
I hesitate.
Then, “Thank you.”
When I open the bathroom door, I draw in a short breath.
He's got all my supplies in a little basket, neatly arranged next to Epsom salts, scented bath oils, and lotions. High-end, luxury items I wouldn't buy before now because it always seemed like such a waste. He has half a dozen hot water bottles on a shelf, numerous vials of pain meds, and other supplements too—iron, pain relievers, homeopathic remedies I’ve never seen before. Essential oils, roller balls, everything.