by Lana Sky
“But if he did?” I prod.
He grimaces at the mere thought and strokes his chin. “We could head her off. Formulate countermeasures to wipe out her and the fucking ring while we’re at it. Milton would help.”
“So then ask him.” I plant my lips against his jaw and feather a path of them down to the center of his chest. “If you need a better reason, I promise to reward you handsomely after.”
“That is a tempting offer…” He captures my waist, anchoring me against him. In this position, I’ve never felt smaller in his shadow, nestled against him like something cherished and delicate. Protected.
“Whatever you do, I’ll support you.”
Even if it means accepting the unforgivable.
Chapter Twenty-One
He wakes up early, rolling away from me without a word. I can tell from the set of his jaw alone not to question. Not to speak. Instead, I watch from the safety of the blankets as he stands and enters the bathroom. Minutes later, he emerges dripping wet, his gaze set in a grim mask of determination.
Lost in his thoughts, he takes his time picking out his suit, and when I finally rise and join him, I find him scouring his selection of hanging ties.
“This one,” I say, stepping forward to gently remove a navy blue one from the rack. I loop it around his neck as he watches me, his gaze so open my toes curl the few times I sneak a glimpse at it directly.
Once he’s fully dressed, I stand on tiptoe and plant a kiss against his pursed lips.
“I’ll be waiting for you when you come back,” I tell him huskily.
Though for what exactly? Those plans seem up in the air as tiny footsteps approach from down the hall, and the door is opened from the outside.
“Can we go swimming today?” Magda asks, still half asleep, her braids crooked, It tucked under one arm.
Vadim chuckles, his expression softening as he takes her in. “As long as it’s not too cold out,” he says, smoothing his hand over one of her braids. His touch lingers, eventually finding her chin—gently, as if giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she doesn’t, he tilts her head back to face him. “You need all the practice you can get if we’re to summer at the beach, oui?”
Her smile is so damn ripe even her stoic nature isn’t enough to suppress it. “Really?”
He nods, drawing his hand away to adjust his collar. “I’m looking into a boat as well. Would you like to fish?”
She eyes him warily and nods, padding after him into the hall. “Can we get a yacht? And have a party on it…”
“A yacht?” Vadim sounds utterly perplexed by the request, and I feel my cheeks flush. Note to self—watch my terminology around the child next time.
I slip into a robe and follow, my lips stretched into a grin as I watch them interact. Once we’ve had breakfast, Vadim leaves, no doubt heading to face a challenge far more intimidating than lounging by the pool.
And I try not to stress over the possibilities of what could happen between him and his brother. Luckily, the sun is shining, and it’s warm enough out that I feel brave enough to risk another shot at swimming lessons.
“What do you say?” I ask my co-pilot, posted beside me, as I wash the dishes. “How about a swim?”
She darts off while I take my time entering the master suite, trying to pick which one of my outfits I’ll sacrifice to the waters of the pool. I’ve barely begun perusing my options when I spot a luxurious black shopping bag I definitely do not remember purchasing myself. Inside, I find not one, but several beautiful, stylish swim sets to choose from.
The bastard even got me a particularly risqué bikini in emerald green.
I’m smiling as I pick a modest navy-blue one-piece for now, and I’ve just managed to get it on when a tiny voice calls from the mouth of the closet. “Are you ready yet?”
I peek out to find that I’m not the only one who found a few presents in her wardrobe. Magda’s fully decked out in a charming yellow one-piece decorated with white polka-dots, complete with a matching set of sunglasses and her fanny pack.
“Hold your horses, sailor-girl,” I tell her playfully. “And you don’t want your phone to get wet. Leave the bag in your room, and go wait for me downstairs. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Five minutes?” she prods, every bit as manipulative as her father.
I relent with a sigh. “Five minutes.”
Within two, I already hear frantic shouting coming from down below.
“I’m coming,” I call out. “Just give me one second.” With a pile of towels slung over my arm, I pad down the stairs. As I round the corner of the kitchen, I call out, “I hope you’re ready to learn how to doggie paddle—”
A piercing scream cuts me off mid-sentence, followed by a monstrous splash. My heart stops. Before I know it, I’m racing onto the terrace. My eyes fixate on the pool—and the tiny figure flailing in the center.
I stop thinking. The next second I’m in the water, diving down just as she slips beneath the surface. Adrenaline and instinct control my limbs, giving me a strength I didn’t know I possessed to grab her in my arms and spring toward the surface.
I gulp at the air, kicking toward the edge of the pool on autopilot as my attention turns to the girl in my arms. She’s quiet. Too quiet.
“Magda!” I spin her around, my thoughts racing as I struggle to recall the first steps of CPR. Two large blue eyes blink up at me, stunned but alert.
I manage to haul her onto the edge of the pool and climb out after her before relief barrels through me like a sucker punch. My hands shake as I stroke the hair from her face, my eyes on her chest. Only when my voice reaches back to me—high pitched and frantic—do I realize that I’ve been speaking to her this whole time.
“What were you thinking, coming out here without me? Are you okay? Magda! Say something.”
But she’s silent, even though—physically at least—she seems to be okay. I draw her into my arms anyway, squeezing so tightly I think she’d protest if she weren’t in shock. Soon any anger I may have felt turns to a crippling, overwhelming sense of guilt. I stroke my hands down her back, my voice soothing. “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay…”
But she isn’t.
“What the hell?” Red splotches mar her left arm, noticeable only when I start to pull back. Alarm shoots through me like a lance. They don’t look like a rash or a harmless reaction to the water. They’re scratches. As if someone grabbed her there. Brutally.
“Honey…” I force her to face me. “Tell me what happened.”
I’ve never seen her like this. Dazed. Distant. Much like Vadim in his very worst of mind states. When it seems like nothing short of screaming can reach him. When his past has all but consumed him.
I snatch Magda into my arms and carry her back into the house, my heart pounding. I wrench the sliding glass door shut and lock it. Then I race to the cutlery drawer and grab the biggest knife I can. Brandishing it in one hand, I curl my free arm around Magda—though she’s clinging to me so tightly on her own.
At first glance, nothing looks out of place. The kitchen is as pristine as always, the dining table cleared of dishes or dust for that matter. The heightened sense of unease that has me scanning the corners could be attributed to paranoia.
But then I hear it. Laughter. Faint and distant, it comes from the direction of the terrace. I whip around to find a beautiful blond lazily skirting around the pool. In her hand is a pistol, aimed squarely at the glass door.
There isn’t time to panic. I just run, barreling upstairs before I even process why. In Magda’s room, I rip her from me, crouching down to her level.
“Get your cell phone, honey,” I tell her, making my voice as stern as I can. “Call your dad and hide. No matter what, stay hidden, okay?”
She nods, and some twisted semblance of relief eases my fear. I stroke her hair and then close the door, returning downstairs. It’s stupid. I should be hiding too. Running in search of a guard or wait for Vadim.
But deep down, I know in the pit of my gut that nothing I do will deter Irina for long. She doesn’t want a chase.
She wants a fight.
The kitchen is her battlefield. She sits at the dining table amid a sea of shattered glass—remnants of the sliding glass door. She eyes me from above her neatly folded hands, the gun out of sight.
“You’ve called him already, I’m sure,” she says, her lips parted into a beautiful smile. Her outfit this time is a ruby red dress that enhances her curves, playing off the gold in her hair. “Good. It’s best we keep this quick—”
“Keep what quick?” I counter, adjusting my grip on the knife. I stride toward the counter, putting it in between us, my eyes on her hands. If she goes for her gun, I might be able to duck quickly enough to avoid the first bullet.
But the longer I keep her talking, the more time Magda has to hide.
“You don’t want your daughter,” I point out, cocking my head with a confidence I don’t feel. “You already had the chance to kill me, and you didn’t take it. What now?”
“Now?” She giggles, her eyes sparkling. “You were never a factor,” she tells me. “Just a toy. A diversion. And Magdalene, while I may have no use for her, she does serve one purpose...”
“Vadim,” I croak. “You know he’d do anything for her. So why try to drown her?” Anger makes my voice tremble in a way I’ve never heard it before. I barely recognize this woman.
But embodying her gives me an insight I’d never have before my brief introduction into Vadim’s world.
“You didn’t,” I say, changing my opinion as Irina’s eyes darken with disgust. Annoyance.
And then it hits me. The red marks. Magda’s fear. It all paints a horrifying picture—rather than let her mother drag her away, she jumped into a pool, knowing she couldn’t swim. Or, even more chilling, she made the most noise she could, trusting me to hear her. Save her.
“Do you think Vadim will really allow you to hold her life over him?” I ask incredulously. “He’ll kill you.”
“Perhaps.” She shrugs, but in a fluid, graceful motion, she snatches the gun from its hiding place on her lap and aims it squarely in my direction. “Or, he may be too distracted by grief at your death. I’m curious to see it. Something tells me that he’ll get over you quickly.” She smiles wickedly, her eyes gleaming. “Magdalene or no, he could have a flawless child to dote over soon enough.”
It takes everything I have in me to let the barb go unchallenged. Distracting me is what she wants. Instead, I try to read between the lines, finding the meaning in what she isn’t saying.
“You must be desperate for money,” I decide, honing in on her clenching jaw. Bingo. “To come crawling to him after a decade. What? Did the amount you blackmailed from Hiram run dry?”
Her eyes narrow; I’ve caught her off guard again. “Hiram. You say the man’s name as if you know him. But you don’t, do you? No. And neither did Vadim.” She stands, still aiming the gun, though she twirls it by the handle, around and around—a twisted game of roulette.
“Hiram was too smart for his own good. So smart, he accepted the challenge set down by a monster—help him preserve his toys so that he could make more whenever the mood struck him. Children that he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of buying on the black market, stealing or smuggling. Homegrown stock. I don’t think the old man knew the full extent of what he’d signed up for,” she acknowledges with a shrug. “I’m sure he couldn’t face his shame before his perfect little Dima. That he was the one behind the program that saw him strapped down, his essence ripped away. And for what? A broken little girl child so genetically flawed, she carried on his curse.”
“You mean you couldn’t sell her,” I snap, my voice shaking with anger. “To his family. That’s the real reason why you gave birth to her, isn’t it?”
She raises an eyebrow, and I know I’ve hit a bullseye. “His family... Do you even know a hint of their reputation? I think not, or you wouldn’t mention them so cavalierly.” Smug once more, she cocks her chin, a smirk playing over her red lips. “So what if I aimed to give them a child? They would have welcomed Dima back into the fold then. He might have thanked me.”
“But Magda was a girl,” I point out. “So, you blackmailed Hiram for money instead.”
“Hiram, Hiram.” She sadly shakes her head. “A poor man, so wracked with guilt and fear of what his poor Vadim would do if he knew his savior contributed to the hell we lived through. He was pathetic.”
Or he was human. A human who loved a man like his son, enough that he’d do anything to protect him the only way he knew how.
“Why now?” I demand. “Why come back now?” But then I remember something Vadim voiced, his own suspicion. “Your sick little sex ring is in jeopardy? You need more money. How disgusting.”
“You are very mouthy,” she spits, her eyes flashing. “It seems even Dima fed you tidbits to keep you quiet. Though you still have no idea, do you? His world. The crimes he’s ingrained himself within. The darkness that lurks inside of him. One day, he’ll give you a real taste—but I don’t think you’ll enjoy it much.”
She pivots to face me, her expression cold. “You will never know him. No matter what lies he spins to placate you, you will never know the full extent. Money? That man commands more than money—”
“Power,” I finish for her. “Is that it? You want protection.” She flinches, and I know I’ve hit a sore spot. Like a shark sensing blood, I latch on, caution be damned. “The little boy you used and threw away now runs the world. But he doesn’t even want you. He’s had plenty of time to seek you out. Plenty of resources. He’s used them to claim his daughter, but never you. Why?”
She flicks her wrist, pointing the gun at me once more. “Should I kill you quickly?” she muses, tilting the barrel toward my head. “Or slowly?” She turns her attention to my chest and licks her lips. “Slow, I think—”
“Mommy!”
God, no… In slow motion, I turn to the foyer, helpless to stop a tiny figure from racing into the room. Shouting, I lunge from behind the counter, but she’s too fast. As I watch in horror, she runs up to her mother…
And throws her arms around her waist.
“Mommy,” she wails plaintively, her face in Irina’s hip, her tiny hands fisting in her skirt. “Mommy…”
It’s a display that shouldn’t sting nearly half as much as it does. Doubt creeps in, stealing away my resolve. Could I truly fight this battle with Magda as a bystander? Especially if—instead of fearing—she actually loves her mother?
The answer is simple—no.
And well aware of that fact, Irina faces me, her gaze alight with triumph. She lowers her free hand toward her daughter’s head, her fingers unnaturally stiff. Then she flinches and shoves her off so violently her tiny body goes flying into the row of counters with a sickening thud.
“No!” I run to her, wrapping her in my arms, using my body as a barrier between her and our assailant.
“Little bitch,” Irina hisses, swatting at her side. “Enough of this game—”
She aims her gun, heedless of the child in view—and I push all concern for myself out of my brain. Pushing Magda out of range, I pivot on my heel and lunge, swinging with the knife recklessly. Sheer surprise works to my advantage. I catch her off guard, knocking her against the table. The gun flies from her hand, but she lashes out, swiping her nails through the flesh of my cheek.
Growling, she kicks me back and scrambles for her gun. But before she can grab it, she staggers. Falls. Convulses, her eyes rolling.
A monstrous shout resonates from the foyer before I can even process what’s happening. A heartbeat later, Vadim races into the room, Maxim hot on his heels. He takes one look at Irina and then me, his posture tense.
“Get the gun,” he snaps to his brother—an act of trust so startling that I don’t think he even realizes what he’s done. His sole focus is on his daughter, overriding even a decades’ long feud. He lunges for her ove
r the sea of broken glass, stopping short only when he notices me. “Are you alright?”
I nod. “I’m fine.”
With that, we both turn to Magda, and my heart sinks. She’s hunched on the floor, staring blankly.
Vadim tentatively takes a step toward her. “Magdalene?”
She inclines her head toward him, but her blue eyes are fixated on her mother’s body, watching as the woman’s limbs contort uncontrollably. A brief stint of binge-watching medical dramas gives me a vague clue as to what’s happening—she’s seizing.
“She’s not shot,” Maxim declares, his tone cold. He’s standing over Irina, scanning her body with a predatory intensity that makes me shiver. Meeting Vadim’s gaze, he extends her discarded gun.
Vadim steps forward and takes it, hissing in disgust. “What the hell happened—”
I have no idea why or how—but in response to Vadim’s concerned frown, Magda lifts her hand. In it is a tiny syringe, and a horrible explanation for Irina’s state becomes clear.
“You gave her insulin?” Vadim’s expression shifts as he crosses to her, crouching before her. Gingerly, he strokes her cheeks, forcing her to face him. “How much did you give her? How much?” he asks gently.
Magda shrugs and drops the syringe at his feet.
“The whole thing?” Vadim looks at Irina, his gaze unreadable.
“What does that mean?” Maxim demands, seemingly as confused as I am. But then something Vadim told Magda echoes in my mind—no one else should ever take your medicine but you...
“It means… We need to call Milton. Now.” Standing, Vadim forces himself to leave his daughter, turning to the unconscious blond. “Tiffany. Can you take her upstairs to dry off?”
I force myself to move, gathering Magda into my arms. I carry her past Maxim, slipping upstairs. Once we’re in her room, however, I can’t seem to let her go.
“What were you thinking, huh?” I demand against her scalp. “You could have been hurt, honey. I told you to hide. I told you…”
She doesn’t say anything, but her arms go around me in return, holding me just as tightly.
