Page 8 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

ELENA

The moment the black SUV pulls past the iron gates and rolls to a stop outside Renat's estate, my stomach tightens with unease. It isn't morning sickness this time. It's something colder, like walking into a storm without knowing where the lightning will strike.

The estate looms before me, all sharp angles and imposing stone, with windows that reflect the gray Miami sky like empty eyes.

The front door opens before I even reach for the handle.

Two of Renat's guards wait wordlessly as I step out, their faces masks of professional indifference.

Dima nods once in acknowledgment while Alexei's gaze sweeps the perimeter. Their assessing eyes scan the driveway, the trees, the sky. Always searching and ready. I used to feel safer under their watch. Now, their gaze pins me in place, like prey caught in a hunter’s sight.

The humid Miami air clings to my skin as I walk the familiar path to the entrance.

My hand instinctively moves to my still-flat stomach, a gesture that's become automatic in the past few weeks.

The life growing inside me remains invisible to everyone else, but I feel its presence constantly.

A secret that pulses through my veins with every heartbeat.

The foyer's polished marble floors gleam under the afternoon light, gold accents glinting from the rays that filter through the tall windows.

The oversized chandelier hangs like a crystalline spider's web, each facet shimmering with cold brilliance.

But despite the opulence and the warmth of the sunlight, it feels emptier and colder.

My footsteps echo in the vast space, each sound swallowed by the cathedral-like ceiling. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and leather fills my nostrils, mixed with tension. It hovers in the air like smoke, invisible but unmistakable.

Renat doesn't greet me. Without him, every breath feels harder, like I’m drowning in silence.

Usually, he would be here, those hazel eyes finding mine the moment I crossed the threshold.

His hands would be on me before I could take three steps, pulling me close, his mouth claiming mine with the hunger that never seemed to diminish between us.

Instead, one of the staff appears. It’s Maria, the older woman with kind eyes and gentle hands who has worked for the Rostov family for over a decade. She escorts me through the corridors, past exquisite paintings, and the rooms where I've learned the difference between pleasure and ecstasy.

My room waits for me down the hall from his.

The door opens with a whisper, revealing the space that had become mine during those first intense weeks of our relationship.

The king-size bed dominates the room, with its deep charcoal linens perfectly arranged.

Afternoon light streams through the windows, illuminating the sitting area where I spent countless hours reading.

Maria offers to unpack my things with the grace of someone accustomed to managing the needs of others without question.

She mentions that lunch will be ready soon, her voice carefully neutral as she speaks of schedules and meals.

Then she disappears with a soft click of the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The silence feels different here than it did at the safehouse. There, the sound of waves provided constant companionship, a rhythmic reminder that the world continued beyond the walls of my temporary sanctuary. Here, the quiet feels expectant, like a stage just before the curtain rises.

I roam the room in slow circles, my fingers trailing over surfaces that hold memories.

The silk drapes that Renat once pressed me against, his mouth hot on my neck as Miami's skyline glittered beyond the glass.

The familiar writing desk where I tried to work, though concentration proved impossible, when I could hear his voice in the hallway.

The velvet settee by the window, where I would curl up in the mornings, watching him in the garden below as he spoke rapidly into his phone in Russian.

Everything is the same. The books I left behind still rest on the nightstand. The perfume I forgot in my hurried departure to the safehouse sits untouched on the vanity. Even the throw pillow I always placed just so remains exactly where I left it.

Except him. Where is he?

The question burns through me as minutes turn to hours.

I try to occupy myself with unpacking and arranging my belongings in the drawers and closets that once felt like home.

But every sound in the hallway makes me pause, hoping to hear his footsteps, his voice, some sign that he knows I'm here and wants to see me.

The baby shifts inside me, more feeling than movement, and I press my palm to my stomach. Does he regret the pregnancy and the complication it brings to an already dangerous world?

Lunch comes and goes. Maria brings a tray with delicate portions of food that smells wonderful but turns my stomach.

The morning sickness has been unpredictable, striking at random moments and leaving me feeling weak and disoriented.

I manage a few bites of bread, sip some water, and push the rest around on the plate until Maria returns to collect it with the same neutral expression.

The afternoon stretches endlessly. I try to read, but the words on the page blur together.

I attempt to write in my journal, but every sentence feels inadequate to capture the complexity of what I'm feeling.

Fear, anticipation, love, uncertainty. They tangle together until I can't separate one emotion from another.

The house feels alive around me, filled with the subtle sounds of people going about their business.

Phones ring in distant rooms. Doors open and close.

Voices murmur in languages I recognize but don't understand.

Renat's empire continues to function like clockwork, but he remains absent from my immediate world.

When I find him in the study hours later, the sun has begun its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose.

He stands at the window with a glass of dark liquor in his hand, watching the rain that has begun to streak down the glass in silver rivulets.

The storm clouds have rolled in from the Atlantic, turning the late afternoon into premature twilight.

His suit jacket hangs over the back of his leather chair, abandoned in a rare display of casualness.

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos that tell the story of his life in black ink.

The Russian script, the family symbols, the marks that declare his allegiance and his history.

They're all visible in the dim light of the study.

His posture is rigid, every line of his body revealing tension barely held in check. His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping occasionally as he clenches his teeth. His dark eyes, which usually find mine with magnetic intensity, now stare out at the gathering storm, guarded and distant.

He doesn't turn when I enter. Doesn't speak. The silence stretches between us, pulling tighter with every beat of my heart. I can hear the rain intensifying against the windows and the wind bending the palm trees in the courtyard.

His presence fills the space even in silence, commanding attention without effort. But tonight, that presence feels like a wall I can't breach.

“You haven't spoken a word to me since I came back,” I whisper, trying not to let the ache leak into my voice. The words feel inadequate, too small to contain the hurt that's been building since I walked through the front door. “Is it because of the baby?”

His head tilts slightly, the movement barely perceptible, but he still doesn't look at me. The glass in his hand glows from the light of the desk lamp, amber liquid swirling as his grip tightens with a subtle tension.

“Renat,” I breathe, stepping closer. “If this is too much, if I'm too much, just tell me. I need to know.”

The silence continues. Rain lashes against the windows with increasing fury, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles like an angry god. The storm outside seems to mirror whatever tempest is raging inside the man before me.

He finally turns, and the intensity in his eyes knocks the breath from my lungs. Those eyes that have looked at me with desire, tenderness, and possibly love now burn with something else entirely. Rage, carefully controlled but unmistakable. And beneath it appears to be pain.

“This isn't about the baby,” he states, his voice low and rough with emotion he's trying to suppress.

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by confusion. If not the pregnancy, then what is causing his anger? What has built this wall between us in the space of a few hours?

I search his face, looking for clues in the familiar landscape of his features. The strong jaw that I've traced with my fingertips. The mouth that has whispered Russian endearments against my skin. The slight scar above his left eyebrow that tells of violence survived. “Then what is it?”

He moves with dangerous fluidity to the bar cart in the corner. He finishes the glass in a single pull, the muscles in his neck tightening as he swallows. Then he sets it down with quiet finality, the crystal ringing softly against the silver tray.

“Sergey is the mole.”

The words strike like a cold slap, stunning the air from my lungs.

My breath hitches in my throat, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn't among them.

Sergey, who has been by Renat's side for years.

Sergey, who has taken bullets meant for his boss.

Sergey, whose loyalty seemed as unshakeable as the Miami bedrock.

“What?” The question comes out as an unsteady breath.