TWENTY-SIX HE CREATED A MONSTER
TWENTY-SIX
HE CREATED A MONSTER
From an outside perspective, I’m sure the evening appears to be a great success.
From the outside. Not the inside.
“If looks could kill,” Victoria sings as I twirl her around the dance floor. Again. “This is more fun than I first thought.”
“Don’t lie.”
“No,” she insists, waving when she sees Rachel Laker working the crowd. “It is. All these women wishing they were me and all these men wishing you were them.” Her eyes twinkle. “Camille always made it sound like these events were boring.”
As bewildered as I am by her reaction to the tedium of the night’s fundraiser, there’s no denying she’s right.
Or the fact she looks like a glittering diamond in the mood lighting. No wonder we’ve caught everyone’s eye.
“I’ve created a monster.”
She taps my cheek. “You can take no credit for my monster. It’s all mine. Lovingly curated over two decades.”
“You can’t be enjoying this torture.”
“Being twirled around the dance floor by a handsome man who’ll be my husband tomorrow while the city’s elite drools over the pair of us? What’s not to love?”
“Your feet have to be hurting.”
“I’m wearing flats. You just can’t tell under the dress. Camille warned me not to go with the ultra strappy shoes. She must have known you’d dance me off my feet. Anyway, you’re the one who insists we keep moving.”
“It’s either that or I kill the next man who asks you to dance.”
“You can’t say I didn’t flash my engagement ring at them.”
“No, and that made them want you more.” I shoot a disgusted look at the room, the fancy chandeliers and the oversized dance floor and the stupid auction items.
I knew that my showing up with a strange woman, complete with an engagement ring, would trigger gossip at an event that, historically, I attend solo, but it’s been particularly bad tonight.
“I’ve watched more women undress you with their eyes than an optician could deal with,” she reprimands. “And you’re not wearing an engagement ring.”
“Don’t sound so disgusted, korovka. Men don’t tend to wear them.”
“How’s that fair?”
“I’ll wear a ring tomorrow,” I soothe.
“Oooh, I need to buy it for you.”
“It has to be titanium.”
“Not gold?”
“Gold will get scratched.”
“Ah, yes. In your line of work, coming into contact with so many hacksaws…” She smirks. “Isn’t tungsten stronger? I’ll google it after.” She doesn’t let me answer. “I can’t imagine you attending these by choice.”
“If I want to look respectable, then I have to donate big to the causes these rich fucks appreciate.”
“Like you’re not a rich fuck.”
“Mine wasn’t inherited. I claimed mine.”
“You, Viking, you.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t love it.”
Her tongue smoothes over her lips. “You wouldn’t want me to lie.”
“No, zaya, I wouldn’t.” Dragging her closer to me, I rest my hand on her hip and squeeze.
“Who did you attend with before?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
Her bewilderment makes my lips twitch. “I slipped in and I slipped out—”
“That had better be a euphemism!”
I can’t withhold the gust of laughter that escapes me. “The past four years, it has definitely not been a euphemism. I show my face, donate to one of the lots or sign a check, I eat the shitty food, and I go.”
“And in between, women flaunt themselves in front of you?”
“Yes.”
“Bighead.”
“Hardly! I’m not lying either.”
“Well, I’m here now,” she declares. “I attend with you. And if I can’t come, then you can’t either.”
I press my hand deeper into the divot where her hips meet ass. My fingers settle there, spreading over the small of her back. “Ms. Possessive.”
“Tomorrow, it’ll be Mrs.” Her unapologetic tone has me grinning at her until she murmurs, “Misha’s incoming.”
“What? How do you know what he looks like?”
She rolls her eyes. “He used to be one of my guards, remember? You both got old but I remember your faces.” As I grunt at her sass, she continues, “He’s stepping onto the dance floor. Three, two, one—”
“Victoria, there’s a call for you.”
I glare at him. “Are you being serious?”
“For me? Who’d call me through you?” she asks in confusion.
Misha doesn’t answer, just shoves his cell phone at her.
I guide her off the dance floor and over to a quieter corner then, into her ear, direct, “Put it on speaker.”
“Who is this?”
“Vitam impendere vero.”
Her shoulders straighten with recognition.
“In the next ten minutes, we will send you coordinates. Be dropped off there. A brother will be waiting to collect you. Go with them alone. They’ll transport you to a secondary site where the next rite will commence. Take nothing with you. Not even a cell phone. We will be watching.”
The call ends.
“She can’t go,” Misha immediately argues.
“I have to.”
I step between her feet and push her into the corner.
Then, I press a kiss to her lips. Using the shadows to hide my actions, I call on the pickpocketing skills I haven’t used in years to slide my switchblade over her chest. Of course, that’s when I realize I can’t access her cleavage and I hiss in annoyance.
She lifts her arms slightly, and I take the hint. Slipping the knife under the armband, I find the bones of the corset I suspected of being there earlier and I tuck the weapon into it.
She’s wearing it so tightly that it must constrict her lungs, but it means that the knife should remain in situ unless she chooses to remove it.
When I pull back, I question, “You sure you want to do this?”
Obstinacy turns her expression mulish. “Of course.”
“Kill if you have to.”
Her eyes shutter. “Yes.”
“Maim if you can’t.”
That earns me a smile, but it’s nothing like the buoyant joy I’ve been flooded with the whole night.
I could kill those motherfuckers myself.
“You can’t seriously be letting her go,” Misha snarls.
I glower at him and, in Latgalian, grind out, “Do I tell you what to do with your woman?”
His nostrils flare but he retreats a step, backing off in more ways than one.
Snagging her hand, I lead her to the dance floor. She cuddles into me, seeking comfort. I want to ask her again why she’s putting herself through this. I want to demand she ignores their call. But I know she won’t.
I promised I wouldn’t cut her wings and I meant it.
A sudden sob escapes her. “Y-Your dress. I’m wearing the wrong outfit!”
“That doesn’t matter.” I press my lips to her ear. “Remember what I said about it being a game of strategy?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Win. The red cloak means you’re the top of the leaderboard now, but if you want to impress them, you need to take first place again.”
“I understand. The dress—”
“Forget about it. Would a more sedate gown have been better perceived? Da. But we work with what we have.”
She bites her lip. “You said it’s like chess?”
“They put you in situations where you have to impress them.”
“I can do that.”
“Of course you can. You’re Victoria Vasov, soon-to-be Lyanov. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
Her tension fades. “You’re right.”
“It could be something like fulfilling a lie or defending yourself verbally. They want to see how you respond in worst-case scenarios. Harrington said that each initiate’s rite is different.” That bastard better not have lied to me—he’s running out of fingers. “Because they’re not fucking around.”
“What does that mean?”
“The stakes are real.”
“Jesus.” She hangs her head until I hold the back of her neck and urge her to look at me. Our eyes entwined, she straightens her posture. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the house, but I’ll call you the moment I can.”
“Remember, Victoria…”
She wets her lips. “Kill.”
Still holding her nape and imbuing my faith in her into the gesture, I kiss her. “Don’t stand me up now that you’ve finally set a date.”
Her laughter is tighter than earlier, but she relaxes in my embrace. “I won’t, Maxim. I won’t.”