69. Octavia
My grandfather has truly abhorrent taste in men.
I force vomit down my throat at the sensation of my future husband’s hand pressing the curve of my back, urging me through the ornate doorway.
Boris hasn’t spoken another word as he’s led me through the house, leaving me to study the interior layout and indulge in a fantasy of my current husband ripping off his ballsack and shoving it down his throat.
I’m an excellent multitasker.
My grandfather’s last wife has been dead for nearly fifteen years now, but thanks to Mom’s journals, I still see her little touches everywhere I look.
The pale French Revival-style bricks by the fireplace in the sitting room.
The assortment of antique candlesticks collecting dust on the mantel.
Even the fainting couch catches my eye, dragging me back to the entry that Mom wrote there instead of finishing her schoolwork one afternoon years ago.
Who knows how long this wife will linger, she wrote. Women don’t last long in the Popov household.
Voices filter in from the next doorway. My feet try to slow as we near the room, but the stern hand on my back prohibits it.
“If it isn’t our guest of honor!”
The dining room is crowded. Nearly every seat at the long table is taken, and each plate is piled to the brim with roasted pork, wafting potatoes, and a million other sides.
A crystal chandelier hangs above the gathering, but rather than being placed in the center of the room, it trickles down over one particular chair.
The old man sitting at the head practically reeks of swanky bureaucracy and bribed judges. His hair is icy white, a stark contrast to his black brows and dark eyes. I wait for a twinge of ancestral familiarity.
I feel none.
“Tell me, my friend. Are you pleased with your bride?”
The words are directed over my head, even as he roves my form with an assessment.
“I have yet to decide,” Boris says, pushing me further into the room. There are only two vacant chairs, both of which happen to be positioned beside my grandfather’s seat.
Popov releases a deep laugh. “I’m afraid you don’t have much time to make up your mind.” He gestures to a quiet man on the far side of the table, dressed in a priest’s robes. “Father Jacob’s a busy man. We’ll have the ceremony after we finish eating, so he can prepare for his early morning.”
I slide into the chair I’m directed towards, taking stock of the table. A few faces are familiar from our recon on his inner circle, but having them all stare in my direction at once is unsettling as fuck.
The dining room has an odd design. One side of the room has a wall covered with rare paintings and ornate masks.
The other side is tempered glass from floor to ceiling.
It’s idiotic for a normal person, let alone one who has so many reasons to get shot daily.
I can’t decide if the choice to leave himself so exposed is a taunt or a threat.
“Annika.”
I glance over, meeting a flat gaze.
“I know you’ve been raised by heathens, but it’s customary to greet your host at the very least.” He grins around a sip of wine. “Especially when he’s paying for your wedding.”
“I was merely admiring your home,” I say. My legs itch, but I try not to fidget.
“And the verdict?”
“It’s lovely.” I fold my hands in my lap. “Open.”
The men at the other end of the table murmur, but they must be speaking in Russian because I can’t decode a single word from their lips.
A pleased look passes over Popov’s face. “Yes, I’m quite partial to the sun. Maybe if you’d arrived on time, you could have seen it in its prime. The chandelier was created by Michael DeLavo for this very room, and it lights up so spectacularly under the setting sun.”
“A shame, indeed. I apologize for my tardiness.”
A servant appears at my side with a bottle of wine and starts pouring me a glass. Everyone tracks the movement with tense observation. Jesus. Fetch me my bathing toaster, Jeeves.
“You told me she’d be a brunette, like her mother,” Boris says, stabbing his fork through a slab of meat. The metal screeches against his china plate.
“Yes, well, she would be, if she hadn’t messed with her hair. Not to worry, color is easily fixed. Thank God she didn’t shove one of those cattle piercings through her nose…”
Silverware clatters to the table, and the priest looks up with disapproval.
“Sorry, Father,” Popov says with a wave.
He nods, returning to his meal.
I stop my eyes from rolling back. We’re here for a kidnapping and a forced marriage. I think God will overlook his name said in vain.
“The Popov women have always required a firm hand. I’m not surprised that she grew so wild on her own—”
“Is that what fixed my mother?” I ask, tilting my head. “A firm hand?”
“Behave,” Boris grinds into my ear.
Popov smiles, swallowing his unchewed bite.
“Your mother was a sad case. She was never happy with the lavish life I gave her. Always went on and on about ambition and freedom, so naturally, I gave her a job. All she had to do was reside in my enemy’s compound and report back to help her family.
Unfortunately, she went mad at your father’s side.
There was too much pressure. Suddenly, the simple life of luxury I had originally provided her was looking far more appealing than ambition.
” He shakes his head, slicing open another slab of meat.
“But it was too late. We won’t make the same mistakes with you, dear. ”
More servers enter with platters of food, scooping the contents onto the guests’ plates. No one so much as glances up.
“What was too late?”
He blinks. “Hm?”
I lift my glass to my lips, but I don’t take a sip. “When my mother returned to you. What was too late?”
His mask chips, but performance prevails. “You’re right, you know. My home is bright and open. I think Della was under the impression that the world would be as safe beyond the glass.”
My cup rattles as the base meets the table.
The conversation pivots into the topic of priceless antiques in a disjointed combination of English and Russian. I pretend to pick at my plate, watching the clock from the corner of my eye.
Mom probably developed homicidal impulses after a single year with this monster.
I wonder what he would say if he knew the pretty bartering card he raised had taken a steak knife to the bricks in the back of his beloved house.
Does it vex him, still not knowing how his daughter managed to escape this prison?
The grandfather clock in the sitting room chimes out.
But when I look up, Popov is already observing me. My heart thumps so hard I hear the ramping beat in my ears. Vasiliy and I might have planned this moment in two separate directions, but neither coexist with the suspicious edge in my grandfather’s gaze.
Boom.
The first explosion rattles the house with impossible force. Wine glasses tumble off the table, shattering across the floor.
“Good heavens,” the priest shouts, lurching out of his seat. “What was that?”
The servers scream and run for the kitchen, while the other table guests rise, moving to the glass for a better look at the blaze of fire consuming the sky. I don’t even flinch at the next explosion that follows the first, nor the returning gunfire thundering through the quiet night.
But the man holding my eye contact doesn’t look the slightest bit panicked as he dabs his napkin to his lips. My heart beats louder, morphing into the deafening blasts outside.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“I was hoping we could do this the easy way,” he says, tossing his napkin onto the table. “But I suppose trouble is in your blood.”
At the explosion of the next grenade, the priest flees, scrambling in the same direction as the staff.
Men dressed in riot gear pour into the room from the back entrance.
Somewhere, one floor down, Vasiliy is tunneling into the house towards the holding cells.
Ivan and my cousins are out in that deluge of chaos, fighting for their lives.
He drains the dregs of his wine and grins. “It won’t matter if they manage to get someone through my gates.”
My mouth dries.
What?
Suddenly, I’m tugged out of my chair with a bruising grip on my shoulders.
Two soldiers who were sitting at the opposite side of the table are now behind me, twisting my arms at a painful angle.
Boris rises, walks over to Popov’s chair, and bends an ear to his lips.
I don’t need to know Russian to understand that my careful plans are diving off the rails with every whispered word.
Then my intended turns and leaves the room.
“I learned my lesson years ago, dear.” My grandfather rises from his seat. Dragged forward, I lose my balance. “Nowadays, I like to keep my assets close. They won’t find him down there.”