Chapter 42 Lia
LIA
The gallery door chimes at precisely ten-fifteen, disrupting the careful silence I've built around myself since opening.
I look up from the invoice I've been pretending to review—the same invoice I've stared at for twenty minutes without absorbing a single line.
A man steps inside, his tailored gray suit practically screaming money.
Mid-fifties, distinguished silver threading through dark hair, expensive watch catching the track lighting.
“Welcome to Chambers Gallery.” I set down my pen, automatically shifting into professional mode. “Is there something specific I can help you find today?”
“Ms. Morgan, yes?” His accent places him immediately—Russian. “I was hoping you might show me the Volkov collection.”
My shoulders tense despite the pleasant smile I keep fixed in place. “Of course. It's just through here.”
I lead him toward the back gallery, where three Volkov pieces hang—abstract works that combine violence and beauty in ways that made my stomach turn when I first unpacked them. Now, after witnessing Vane with pliers and a knife, I understand their appeal on a visceral level. I wish I didn't.
“Magnificent, aren't they?” The man stops before the largest canvas, tilting his head. “The way he captures suffering through color rather than explicit imagery. Quite genius.”
“They're certainly provocative.” I maintain careful distance, my heels clicking against the hardwood as I step back. “Are you a collector, Mr.—?”
“Orlov.” He turns, and his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “And yes, I collect many things. Beautiful things, especially.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Not the obvious leer of a man being overtly sexual, but something colder. More calculating.
Like he's assessing merchandise.
“The Volkovs aren't for sale individually,” I hear myself say, voice steady despite the adrenaline suddenly flooding my system. “Mr. Chambers acquired them, sold as a complete collection.”
“Everything is for sale, Ms. Morgan.” He moves closer, casual enough that I can't justify backing away without seeming rude. “It's simply a matter of finding the right price.”
His gaze travels over me with the same analytical appreciation he showed the paintings.
I force myself to breathe normally. “Mr. Chambers sets the prices himself. I can arrange a meeting if you're serious about acquisition.”
“How accommodating.” He steps closer to another painting. “You must enjoy working for him. Much better than working for someone like the Blackwoods, I imagine.”
The name drops between us like a stone in still water.
“I wouldn't know,” I say carefully. “I don't work for them.”
His smile tightens. “But you know them quite well, yes? Particularly Vane Blackwood.”
Ice slides down my spine. This isn't random. Nothing about this conversation is random.
“Ravenwood is a small town,” I deflect. “Everyone knows everyone.”
“Some more intimately than others.” His eyes harden. “Tell me, Ms. Morgan, do the Blackwoods discuss their business with their... companions? Or do they prefer to keep their women ignorant of certain activities?”
Orlov. The name clicks into place with horrifying clarity.
The man in the warehouse. The one Vane tortured. The one who screamed as fingers were severed. His name was Orlov, too.
“I'm afraid I don't follow,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. “If you're interested in the Blackwood family, perhaps you should speak with them directly.”
“Oh, we've spoken.” His voice drops. “My nephew and I had quite an... intense conversation with them recently. Unfortunately, Mikhail is indisposed now. Family obligation compels me to check on his affairs.”
He touches the edge of the painting, tracing the violent red swirl at its center. “Beautiful things are so fragile, aren't they? So easily damaged.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, but I keep my expression neutral. He's threatening me. He's threatening me while standing in my gallery in broad daylight.
“I think you should leave.” I cross to the gallery phone mounted on the wall near the desk, keeping my movements deliberate. “Now.”
“Of course.” He straightens his jacket with unhurried precision. “I've seen what I came to see.”
The door chimes again as he exits, and I lock it the second it closes behind him, hands trembling as I flip the deadbolt.
Shit. Shit.
I lean against the door, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. My breath fogs the window as panic claws up my throat. He knows about Vane and me. He knows where I work. He tracked me down specifically to—what? Threaten me? Use me against Vane?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Vane's name lights up the screen, but I can't answer. Can't hear his voice right now without completely falling apart or screaming at him for dragging me into this nightmare.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and grab my purse with shaking hands. The invoices can wait. The Volkovs can hang here until kingdom come. I need to get back to the inn, lock myself in that room, and figure out what the hell to do.
The street outside is busy enough—lunch hour is bringing the usual foot traffic. I spot my car two blocks down, where I parked this morning, and start walking, heels clicking against pavement.
A reflection in a shop window catches my attention.
Gray suit. Same measured pace I'm keeping.
Orlov.
My pulse spikes. I turn the corner toward the parking garage instead of continuing to my car, hoping the change in direction is just paranoia. But when I glance back, he's still there, maintaining that careful distance.
Not paranoia.
I speed up. My heels weren't designed for running, but a brisk walk that's almost a jog is doable. The parking garage looms ahead—concrete and shadows and too many places to corner someone.
No. Bad idea.
I veer toward Main Street instead, where cafes and boutiques line both sides. More people. More witnesses.
But Orlov closes the distance.
“Ms. Morgan.” His voice carries across the space between us. “Wait.”
I don't wait. I duck between two buildings into an alley that should cut through to the next street.
The alley is narrower than I remember. Dumpsters line one side, and the afternoon sun barely reaches the pavement. My breath comes harsh and fast as I hurry toward the far end.
Footsteps echo behind me.
“We should talk,” Orlov calls out, closer now.
I'm halfway through when a figure steps into the alley ahead, blocking my path. My scream catches in my throat—
But it's not another threat. It's a man I don't recognize, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket. He positions himself between me and Orlov with practiced ease.
“Walk away,” the stranger says to Orlov, his voice flat and dangerous.
Orlov stops. “This doesn't concern you.”
“It does.” The stranger's hand moves to his side, where I catch the outline of a gun beneath his jacket. “She's protected. You touch her, you die.”
Orlov stares at the stranger for a long moment before raising his hands in mock surrender. “My mistake.”
He backs away slowly, that calculated smile returning as his gaze finds mine one last time. “Give Vane my regards, Ms. Morgan.”
The stranger doesn't move until Orlov disappears around the corner. Only then does he turn to me, and I see his face clearly—angular features. These dark eyes scan the alley with methodical precision.
“You're fine,” he says. Not a question. A statement.
“Who the hell are you?” My voice shakes despite my best efforts.
“Lark.” He gestures toward the alley's far exit. “Car's this way. I'll drive you back to the inn.”
“I didn't ask for—” I stop, realization crashing over me. “Vane sent you.”
“He's had someone on you since you moved to Ravenwood.” Lark starts walking, clearly expecting me to follow. “Increased detail after you witnessed the interrogation.”
After I witnessed him torturing someone. My legs move automatically, following him toward a black SUV parked at the alley's end.
“How long have you been following me?”
“Since you left your apartment this morning.” He opens the passenger door. “Get in.”
I climb inside because what else am I going to do? My hands won't stop trembling as Lark circles around to the driver's seat.
He starts the engine, pulling smoothly into traffic. “Gallery's been covered since you opened it.”
The scope of it hits me like a physical blow. Every step I've taken since returning to Ravenwood has been monitored, managed, and protected by people I never saw. My freedom has been an illusion, carefully maintained by Vane's invisible network.
“He knew someone would come for me,” I whisper.
Lark's jaw tightens. “They are scrambling because their Uncle, Ilya Orlov, is missing and they want leverage.”
Not a game. Not some theatrical display of dominance or possession.
Real danger. Real consequences.
I lean my head against the window, watching Ravenwood slide past. The town I thought I knew, filled with threats I never imagined. And Vane, pulling strings I couldn't see, protecting me from dangers he helped create.