Queen of Thorns

by Lana Sky

  Or so I hope.

  “Does the heiress think she gets to stomp her foot and get her way?” Donatello mockingly snipes. The venom in his voice is a shock. Not entirely due to anger, I suspect. Fear?

  Once again, he hates when I foil his expectations of me.

  “You’ve had your say. Let’s see her speak for herself.” Fabio gestures to the page. “Well, let’s see them then—”

  “Fabio, are you seriously entertaining this?”

  The man raises an eyebrow. “Is she your willing fiancée or not?”

  Donatello says nothing, but I can feel his gaze boring through the back of my neck.

  “Well then,” Fabio says in the resulting silence. “Let’s see her demands.”

  I only have four—just a small list in the grand scheme, composed with one aim in mind. In what way can I claw back a pathetic shred of power for myself?

  The first step is to remember who I am—a Stepanov. Ellen and Eli are in this very building. I can’t leave without seeing them, so I write.

  1. I am allowed to see my family.

  “Now?” Fabio sounds wary, but Donatello snorts.

  Or maybe he growls. “No. Hell no—”

  “Perhaps once everything is set in writing,” Fabio says over him. His lips contort into a strained smile purely for my benefit. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  “So she can go prancing back to Stepanov manor and return leading an army of guards?” Donatello snipes. “Hell no.”

  “If we make the proper arrangements, I don’t see why not,” Fabio says tacitly. He taps the paper, eyeing me expectantly. “What else?”

  2. I have my own guard stay with me. Evgeni.

  It’s the only option that seems capable of making Havienna somewhat bearable—a piece of my new life. Someone to ground me in the world of Donatello Vanici. He may have consumed Safiya, but I refuse to let him destroy Willow.

  “Think that’s a proper ‘arrangement’?” Donatello snipes.

  Fabio furrows his brow in concentration but merely nods. “What else?”

  My hand shakes, but I force myself to finish.

  3. I have unlimited access to my own financial accounts.

  That draws an even more violent scoff. Unbothered, I keep writing.

  4. I am allowed to pick my own clothing.

  He doesn’t challenge that stipulation. For the first time, I look back to find him leaning beside me, his hand braced on the table, his eyes dark in thought. A shudder runs through me that I can’t explain. Rather than inspect it, I turn back to my paper as Fabio gently takes it from my hand.

  “These all look agreeable to me,” he declares. “I’ll have them drafted into the final agreement you’ll present to Mischa—”

  “No!” Donatello grabs for the page, but Fabio pulls it out of reach. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “You want this to seem like an equal partnership, right?” Fabio eyes my list and nods, folding it. Meeting my gaze, he tucks it into his pocket. “These sound reasonable enough. Consider them done—” He turns his attention to Donatello, unfazed by the glower the other man shoots him. “I suggest you start making your arrangements. Think of it this way, Mischa has less to counter if it’s clear she’s let her own voice be heard in this matter. Which brings me to another point…” He eyes me as if considering whether or not to voice his concern. After a second, he squares his jaw. “The matter of her ‘virtue.’ Call me old-fashioned, but if you haven’t touched her as you say, then we should codify that. Have it cemented in stone so that no one can accuse you of taking advantage. Besides, if your love is so pure, you should have no trouble waiting to consummate your union—”

  “Knock it off.” Donatello casts me a glance of disgust. “I have no intention of ever fucking her if that’s what you mean.”

  My cheeks flame—a reaction I have no control over. It’s purely instinctive and not at all a response to the sincerity in his voice. Sincerity that so vastly contradicts the way he touched me only a few moments ago. When his mouth had been inches from mine, and I could see it in his eyes…

  He wanted more.

  “Good,” Fabio says. “Then put your money where your mouth is. You break that—in any way. If she winds up…scandalized in your care, you forfeit everything. I’m sure you have no trouble agreeing to that.”

  Donatello noticeably hesitates, his eyes flicking in my direction. Just when I think he’ll argue, he nods curtly. “Fine. Let my little wife have her stipulations.” Pushing back from the table, he stalks from the room, his voice a parting slap. “Come.”

  “I’ll make sure these are drawn up,” Fabio insists. He opens his mouth as if he means to say more. Instead, he nods. “Good luck.”

  I take a steadying breath before turning to the doorway, but a childish urge to linger here in Fabio’s orbit swamps me. With every inch I stray from him, the shift in the atmosphere becomes more apparent. It’s a feeling like that of being adrift in a boat with no oars.

  And my destination is a waterfall certain to dash me to pieces.

  More than that, Donatello Vanici is a storm unto himself, swirling madly just beyond the door.

  I could run and cower from the resulting tempest. Or step right out into the thick of it, unbothered.

  He stiffens when I enter the hall and find him waiting, standing tall as a nurse scurries past him, looking so small in comparison to his bulk. In his eyes, I expect to see that simmering anger—and I do. But mingled there amongst it all is an emotion I wasn’t anticipating.

  Grudging respect?

  It gleams for just a second from the overall darkness before he blinks and inclines his head. “Come. Little wife.”

  I stiffen, inhaling a shaky breath. His tone says it all—he’ll make me pay for my little play for power.

  But this time?

  I’m ready to do battle—and I have more than a knife to counter him with.

  20

  Evgeni

  Briar, in all her mystery, continues to surprise me. I expect the card she gave to lead to some grand hotel. A backdrop elegant enough to fit the allure of a disgraced heiress.

  Instead, I find myself before a motel in the part of Hell’s Gambit aptly called the “shitty end.” In a city where crime runs rampant, it’s only fitting that the district deemed the very worst fits all of the most glorified stereotypes.

  Two women stand on the corner across the street, and their outfits make it obvious what wares they’re selling even in broad daylight. Further down the block, a man stands wearing an oversized jacket, his gaze darting around the few people passing by.

  Inside, the place’s quality is even more apparent with peeling tile and creatures scurrying in the shadows. My my, the Winthorp heiress has fallen from grace.

  Her room is on the second floor in a slightly better location that overlooks a vacant parking lot rather than the main street. I knock once, expecting a haughty silence from the other end.

  Anything but a cheerful, purred, “Just a minute.”

  Amusement mingles with an emotion I can’t decipher, and both make me raise an eyebrow with one realization—she’s expecting someone.

  Just as I start to wonder who, the door opens, ushering a cloud of perfumed steam into the hall.

  “Oh,” the woman remarks, sounding mildly surprised. “It’s you.”

  I blink to find her standing on the other end with her back to me. Her bare back. A towel slung around her waist barely covers the curve of her ass and the rounded tops of her thighs.

  Everything else is on stark display. Modest doesn’t seem to be her default setting, so I suspect her appearance is entirely by design. To intentionally distract me.

  Perhaps from the fact that a male was here. Recently. I mentally parse through the stern, gruff figures I passed entering this establishment, none of whom seem to be an aristocrat’s preferred company. Perhaps this woman has fallen further than I realized?

  “Do tell me you’re here for a reason,” she prompts.r />
  “That depends. I hope I’m not interrupting something,” I counter.

  “I promised one of the girls downstairs some of my old clothes,” she says coyly before slinking around a corner, presumably into a bathroom given the steam wafting from that direction.

  I picture her tailored red dress and the janitorial outfit. “I don’t think your style fits with their line of work.”

  She laughs, sticking her head out from around the corner. Her blue eyes gleam, and I’m once again struck by how similar she looks to Ellen Stepanova.

  And how different. It’s as if someone took Ellen and stripped the warmth from her gaze, leaving only cold, serpentine mystery. This woman is as similar to her as I assume Eli is to his murderous, bastard of a biological father.

  So tread carefully, a part of me warns. Even if your cock insists otherwise.

  I blame biology for the tightening in my abdomen. I’d have to be blind not to notice her beauty. Luckily, those same eyes spot the gun lying on a dresser across the room. I don’t miss the distinctive hint of masculine cologne underneath her feminine smell, either.

  The lone bed in the center of the room is empty, apart from rumpled white sheets. A few paces away is a closed door, I assume leads to a closet. Could the culprit of the scent be lurking there, waiting to spring an attack?

  Though hell, I couldn’t blame anyone but myself if this is an ambush. I’m the fool that blindly entered it without even alerting my men of my location.

  Almost as if I know how stupid it would sound out loud. To come here on a whim. Even rookies know one simple rule—never meet an enemy in their den, especially not alone.

  But here I am, so why wait for the tables to be turned?

  The room is small enough to cross in just three strides. From here, I have a clear view into a narrow bathroom where she stands with her back to me, sans the towel.

  Gritting my teeth, I rip my gaze away and wrench open the door, palming my own gun in its holster.

  Inside, all I find is a leather suitcase and a simple array of clothing hanging. At a glance, none of the items, in particular, look like they could belong to a man, from the slender red dress to a simple coat and a few blouses.

  “Don’t tell me you intend to interrogate my luggage?” the woman purrs from the doorway of the bathroom.

  I turn to find none of the playfulness reflected in her gaze. Her eyes warily track the return of my gun to its holster while her arms hold a thin towel around her. The dampness of her hair reinforces the fact that she took a shower, and I interrupted. But was she alone?

  Unapologetic, I surge forward, surveying the narrow bathroom before glancing into the shower.

  It’s empty.

  “Should you strip search me as well,” she remarks coldly. I glance back to find she’s pressed herself against the wall. “Maybe I have a weapon hidden on my person? Make sure you’re thorough.”

  Sarcasm laces her tone, but I recall her trick with the blade at the hospital and back away, keeping her hands in view.

  “Maybe I should?”

  Amusement mingled with irritation flickers across her gaze. Then she shrugs. “Oh, all right.” With an exaggerated sigh, she lets the towel fall, stepping into me with her arms outstretched. “Take your time,” she taunts.

  Something that could be alarm makes me grit my teeth, but I take another step, switching to the mindset of a man who can’t afford to take a chance. Not even if it’s offered mockingly.

  I let my eyes sweep her body with a scrutiny usually reserved for the days I’d scan the landscape for enemy soldiers or active threats. Instead of underbrush and sky, I make a mental map of pale skin unmarred by so much as a pimple. The only flaw I find at all is a series of linear, faded scars along the inside of her wrist—which she quickly contorts from my view once she catches me staring.

  Other than that, some men might deem her…perfect.

  Perfectly dangerous in my book.

  “Satisfied?” she snaps once it’s clear that she doesn’t have a weapon within reach. I wouldn’t put it past her type to smuggle a knife in one of the few crevices available on a human body not visible to the naked eye.

  A flush spreads across her cheeks as if she can read my mind, but her smile is shameless.

  “I think you’ve seen enough.” She stoops, grabbing her towel from the floor. Casually she drapes it around her, and I’m finally convinced that she’s alone. “What brings you here? Let me guess. You intend to lure me into a trap at the behest of your employer?”

  “No,” I snap. “I came to listen. Who is Alexander?”

  She laughs while slinking past me for the closet. From it, she grabs the red dress and drops her towel again in favor of it. From over her shoulder, she chirps, “Don’t tell me you believe me, now?”

  “I don’t,” I counter. “But even if you are lying, I’d still like to know your aim.”

  “But don’t you already?” She whirls around and props her hand beneath her chin. Slowly, her eyes rake me over, and she nods once to herself. “Spoiled little rich girl, desperate for money. My aim is to fleece Mischa by threatening his wife or holding whatever information I may know about my family over his head, yes?”

  She smirks knowingly when I don’t respond.

  “Oh, Evgeni, Evgeni…” Arching her back, she eyes herself in a dingy mirror hanging on the wall and runs a hand down her side. “Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’ve already decided what type of man you are and have arranged everything perfectly to exploit that knowledge.”

  “Oh?”

  Her smile widens. “That you are the bleeding-heart type ripe for the manipulation by some poor, downtrodden woman you deem in need of saving. That by luring you here with the promise of information, I’ve only managed to provoke that sense in you. Once you see my living arrangements, you’ll be driven to protect me.”

  It’s an unnervingly specific plan. “Then you’ve sorely misjudged me,” I say.

  “Ah, but did I?” She nods in the general direction of my gun—while I notice she’s inching closer to the one lying on the dresser. “Don’t tell me you bring that on all of your social calls.”

  “Only when I’m meeting with someone who has already proven themselves dangerous.”

  She shrugs and switches tack, throwing herself onto the mattress. Fluttering her lashes, she eyes me through them. “Well, I must have made quite the impression for you to come so armed just to meet one lone woman. If I do tempt you enough to take a shot at me, do use a silencer, or you might spook the drunk next door.”

  “A drunk, huh? Is he responsible for the smell of cologne in here?”

  Her tongue flits across her lower lip—I caught her off guard. “As you can see, I’m all alone, soldier,” she simpers.

  It’s a lie, but I can’t fathom her reasoning.

  “Right. One lone woman,” I parrot.

  “Ah!” Her upper lip quirks into a smug grin. “So you do have a sense of humor. You could have fooled me—”

  “Talk,” I demand. “Or lose your chance. Given your family history, I think you know a thing or two about loss.”

  Her smile falls, and something in my chest twinges. Regret? I don’t decipher it.

  With a heavy sigh, she hauls herself upright and spins to face me while still seated on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re right,” she snaps. “I do know a thing or two about loss. Especially loss derived from the pissing contests of two arrogant men. Your Mischa? I’ve been on the receiving end of one of his grudges before. I’d rather not be in that position again—” the shudder she suppresses seems genuine enough. “So arrange a meeting between us like a good dog and everyone is happy. Trust me, I think he’ll want to learn what I know.”

  “And what is that?” I demand. “You should be careful throwing around the term ‘dog.’ I’ve known some men who train their animals to rip their enemies limb from limb.”

  “And I’m sure Mischa has trained you well,” she says
softly. “But before you rip me apart, you should know one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the only person standing in between him and a bullet aimed for his skull—and not just his. Those sweet little girls of his. The boy? Eli? Would you see them all dead because you were too arrogant to listen to what I have to say?”

  I take a step toward the bed. “I suggest you say it now.”

  She swallows, her eyes darting to my side again. “Alright. Mischa is in danger—”

  “And how do you know that?”

  I can’t tell if the emotion flitting across her gaze is unease or pride. “Because I’m the one who brought the hoard right to his door.”

  Her words take a second to process. “What are you—”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, an occurrence so abnormal I reach for it automatically.

  “Volkov?”

  “You should get here,” a man warns, his voice vaguely familiar. Usually, he isn’t whispering.

  “Mario?”

  “Just get back to base,” he insists. “Now. Mr. Stepanov is not happy.”

  His stern tone is the only trigger I need to lurch into action, heading for the door.

  “Also, while this may not be the best time to mention it,” he adds in a rush, “I found something you might be interested in. It’s not much, but I think you’re smart enough to make use of it. I’ll send it all in an email. Keep in mind it won’t lead back to me, and if anyone asks, we never had this conversation.”

  He hangs up before I can even question. For once, Donatello Vanici isn’t at the forefront of my mind.

  “Leaving so soon?” the woman simpers, crossing her arms as I open the door. “Don’t let me stop you. I’m sure anything at all must be more important than—”

  Pivoting on my heel, I snatch her arm, yanking her from the bed mid-word. She covers her fear easily, trying to pull her hand back with a smile.

  “Let go of me—”