Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
QUINN
Iknew this room was the right choice. Despite the horrible welcome and the very reason I’m here, I sleep right through the night, not even waking for the bathroom until a soft, lingering glow only made by the first light of day filters into the room.
Dawn has always been my favorite part of the day.
It’s like the whole world is still asleep, and I get to enjoy the peace and tranquility without having to share it with anyone.
While other people I know love the vibrancy of late nights, I’ve always strived to do everything in my power to make sure I was awake and ready for the healing of a rising sun.
It’s not a time for me to reflect, to worry away; it’s my time to soak in the moment. To simply be.
Rolling out of bed, I open the heavy drapes, letting in even more of the morning.
I’m not a fan of disorder, I wonder if I should move the bedside table back from under the door to where it should be, but the thought of not having a lock or being protected outweighs the jittery feeling of having something out of place.
I climb back under the pile of blankets on my bed.
The warmth is like a soft hug, heavenly and energizing.
The blankets and pillows that were on the bed are folded in the bottom of the walk-in wardrobe, and my blankets, linen, and quilt are now on the bed, and they’re what I snuggled in.
There’s endless comfort for an Omega in the familiar.
It’s as necessary as the air we breathe.
If it weren’t for the small comforts, I’m sure I’d be a nutjob.
Making a nest of pillows, I settle in a pile, then check my phone for messages and emails.
The lack of anything clinic related is like getting hit in the face with a cold fish at a face-slapping competition.
I knew it was coming, but my stomach still hollows out, and I must squeeze my eyes to stop the sudden rush of tears.
I’ve always loved helping and caring for people.
Throw in how cold and inhospitable Russia is, and I want to tell the world to go fuck itself, slowly, with a cactus, instead of sticking to the plan.
I stop pretending I’m okay and have a cry, curled protectively around my pillow and hidden under all my blankets. Not for the first time, I wonder why I can’t simply let someone else solve my problems.
But when I close my eyes, I see my reasons. My thoughts fill with all the happy times we’ve had, the games we played, the family dinners Deena made special. And then, invariably, my mind locks on the day we ran away. The terror in Marco’s eyes will be forever etched on my soul.
I poke my head out, letting the cool air dry my tears while the serenity of the new day does its thing, filling me with virtues that are hard to define but easy to feel.
Once the birds start intruding on the quiet, I climb out of bed, and after searching to find my AirPods, I get changed quickly, then lose myself in an energetic, flow-filled routine my yoga instructor teaches.
The poses are brutal, but as I finish each one, a sense of strength returns, and my self-centering starts to chase away the doubts.
Sitting with the sun streaming on my face, I mediate the shit out of anything left behind that my yoga hasn’t quashed until there’s only stillness and resolution.
With a fresh approach to the murderous path I’m on, I wash my hair, then blow it out straight.
I choose what to wear solely based on what I think will piss Barbie off.
It seems fitting that I step up my game with her; she’s the type with long claws.
I can’t, and won’t, let her derail my plans.
She needs to realize it, and today is the day.
On the way down the stairs, Victor texts with pictures and bios on two bodyguards that he’s sending my way. By this time tomorrow, they will be here. I don’t particularly need them, but their presence is a necessary show of strength, power, and money in a world where appearances are everything.
At the front of the hallway to my suite, a guard stands. His eyes follow my every step, and the waves of contempt rolling off him are obvious, as is the threat of punishment if I do anything wrong.
I don’t engage with him as I take a couple of wrong turns, navigating my way towards the front of the house, and bless his soul, he doesn’t correct me or offer to help.
I do it more times than necessary just to annoy him.
Eventually, though, I can’t pretend I’m lost anymore; the sounds of people eating are like a lighthouse on a dark night.
I nearly lose my footing when I see Barbie sitting in a baby-pink Givenchy jumpsuit. This bitch is so yesterday, I think, smoothing a hand over my own jumpsuit.
She’s surrounded by two matching Barbies. These girls are the mean-girl type. Not the group of friends who are ride-or-die sisters like you read about in romance books.
“You know three is a crowd, right?” I ask, keeping my smile small and bland.
The blank pan I get from each of them makes me do a little snort laugh. I take a seat opposite. Their scents are as individual as they are, and similar to Barbie’s Poison-inspired scent, theirs are overpowering too.
I twist around, looking for a window, and strike gold, finding a set of French doors to the outside. I open them without asking, taking a couple of deep breaths of frigid air before returning to my seat.
Within moments of me sitting, one of the staff from yesterday appears and starts laying a place setting for me.
“Nyet.” Barbie slaps her palm on the table, her icy stare bouncing to the maid. “Not eat with us.”
I lean back in my seat, flicking nothing but air off my own set of Givenchy leisure wear. The muted beiges of the current season are so much easier to stomach, compared to Barbie’s pink.
I hold her glare, easily. “Wrong. The four of us are going to have a nice chat and sort this out between us, like the ladies we are,” I say softly before turning to watch water getting poured into the crystal goblets.
Grabbing my phone, I use Google Translator to ask for them to get some scent spray to deal with the scent war going on around us, along with my breakfast. Poached eggs, as well as a small serving of syrniki.
The small pancakes made from quark cheese and served with jam are a breakfast staple in Russia.
I’ve had them before back home, and they’re delicious.
The lady in uniform walks over to a side table and opens a cupboard before walking around us, squirting the mist into the air. Given the spray was on hand, I’d say there are others in the house who struggle to breathe with the girls too.
The toxicity clears within moments, but she leaves the spray where I can see it instead of putting it away. Then she walks out a small, partially hidden door I suspect only staff use.
Once we’re alone, I lift my gaze and meet their snarky glares head-on.
The one closest to Barbie hisses, like her hand touched an iron. “Shlyukha.”
Being called a slut isn’t the most original insult, and honestly, it’s a bit rich, coming from her. And then, because I’m not going to be intimidated, I speak in English.
“Irrespective of your relationship with Mr. Petrov, I am his fiancée. I’m not about to throw you out of his bed, but you play games with me, and I might just change my mind.”
“Ty ne govorish' nam, chto delat’,” she argues. And I start to rethink if English was the right way to approach this, but the third one in their group seems to understand me just fine.
“Why?” she demands, but she can’t look me in the eye for long, a sign of who the badder bitch is.
It’s me.
I take a long exhale, resting my forearms on the table and leaning in close to talk quietly. “Who am I to deny my future husband anything? By all accounts, he is a powerful Alpha, and I am just one woman.” I grin, showing lots of teeth.
She parrots what I said in Russian to the others.
Barbie rapid-fires back at my sort of friend, using her hands to emphasize a few words. I get the gist of the conversation without needing an interpreter, and I feel slightly sad for her. Sergey’s obviously been whispering in her ear about one day becoming Mrs. Sergey Petrov.
In her diatribe, though, Barbie outs herself as an outsider, clearly not understanding how things work in the criminal world where power and influence rule supreme.
Women, especially Omegas, are commodities.
Possessions to be traded for stature and power.
While Barbie has got a great rack and okay fashion sense, she obviously doesn’t bring much else to the table, or she’d already be married off.
I’ve watched enough movies, read plenty of books, then spent an inordinate amount of time researching anything involving Victor.
I think I have a better understanding of the machinations of the darker side of the world, particularly in the world of organized crime.
A wedding ring is old-school, but in this world, tradition is king.
Throw in the fact Sergey has not made his claim permanently on her body, and reinforces the empathy I have that she’s not going to get the fairy-tale ending she was hoping for.
And yeah, I’m Little Miss Assumption today, but if he hasn’t claimed her, it also points to her probably being either a sex worker or a dancer that caught his eye.
If her parents were important or influential people in the real world, the world of organized crime, they would have offered him alliances or opportunity, and he would have got his happily ever after with Barbie bride.
I’m not going to point out the obvious. Maybe me being here means she takes a second look at her life, but I doubt it, considering how hard she’s playing.
Listening to the three of them argue, I look down, my thoughts jumping to the bite on my own hand. But in doing so, I get snippy and impatient as I’m reminded of the life I’m being forced into.