Page 106 of Devil's Vows

He holds up his hands to block my way.

“If you fucking touch me, your Pakhan will kill you,” I say in Russian.

The words sound foreign in my ears, feel strange on my tongue, because for all I’ve studied the language, speaking it doesn’t come naturally to me.

Igor’s eyes widen as he gapes.

“Where is he?” I say in Russian.

For two seconds, he just stands there, mouth hanging open, then he shakes his head in disbelief, hands flailing, wanting to grab my arm and force me to stay put, but now wondering ifhe’d be signing his own death sentence. “I don’t know? Office? You can’t go anywhere.”

“Watch me. I’m already talking to you, am I not? You’ve already failed one of two simple instructions.” I turn and walk off in the direction of the stairs, and it takes him a good ten seconds to follow in my footsteps.

Igor says nothing, but he trails behind me as I find my way to Ivan’s office. The lights are on, but it’s empty.

“Where else could he be?” I ask, turning on the poor guy, who looks overwrought.

“Please, Mrs. Petrova, go back to your room.”

“Where is he?”

He shakes his head with a resigned huff as he pulls a phone from a pocket and sends a message into the void. It takes a mere half minute for a response to pop in because he glances up at me.

“He’s at the barracks, in the gym.” He grinds his jaw. “Mrs. Petrova, this is a bad idea.”

“Well, fuck,” I hiss, irritated with stalling because my own courage is dangling by a thin thread. But I can either wait for Ivan to call the shots, or I shoot off a few of my own. “It’s the only idea I have.”

I know the barracks’ location, but it’s one of the off-limits places on the property.

Well, then. I stride through the kitchen and the conservatory, out of the glass doors and into the cold night air, not giving a flying fuck. I’m dealing with a duped man who could kill me by simply closing his fist around my throat. The setting for our stand-off hardly matters; I just want it over with.

As I march over the wide expanse of lawn, footsteps sound, first one pair, then more. Guards, watching me as my robe flaps open with my rushed steps, my nipples hardening against the sudden cold, and my bare feet not getting me there fast enough.Now I wish I’d put on something underneath the robe, but I was rushing, scared I’d cop out if I delayed one second more.

My heart thumps in my chest, and my breathing has become short and anxious… I need to close the gap to my safe space. I start to run, irrational fear rising up in me, feeling hunted, like every other girl who got hunted and landed in that cellar.

Ivan. It hits me that despite everything, every lie and secret, my body and mind have pinned him as my safe place on my inner map, my haven in this mess, because he hasn’t hurt me once. Even earlier, when he trapped me with his legs, he was careful, and when I winced, he’d let go immediately. Maybe this is why my subconscious is driving me toward him, forcing me to open up and tell him every last thing I know.

“Where’s the gym?” I ask into the night as we close in on the barracks where his men live.

“Mrs. Petrova,” Igor begs. “We can’t get hold of him… You can’t just walk in on him. There might be other men. He’ll…he’ll?—”

“Just take me there. The last I understood, he is running short on staff, so I think you’re safe. I’ll put in a good word.”

He audibly swallows, and who knows what he knows about Ivan, the Bratva brute on the other side of the coin, whom I’m still getting to know. The time has come.

He leads the way to a bigger building and opens a double door for me. As I step inside, I realize it must be some sort of recreation space. A glass wall runs the length of the building with a basketball court on one side, a gym on the other, with ping-pong tables lining the wide corridor in between. A few men are bouncing and tossing a ball around on the court, but I ignore them as I charge deeper into the space. And then I spot my husband, alone in the big gym, going at a punching bag as if it killed his puppy. He has his back to me, still dressed in hiswedding pants, barefoot, chest naked, with a sheen of sweat shining on his skin.

I watch in fascination as he punches the bag, footwork in a semi-circle. Soon, he will face me and see me if he looks up.

“This is fine, you can leave now,” I say, standing tall, pulling my shoulders back and bracing myself.

“Mrs. Petrova?—”

“Go! I can handle him,” I say, even though it sounds dumb and I’m shitting myself, little David taking on Goliath.

When Ivan looks up, our gazes clash. He stills the punching bag with his gloved fists as his gaze sweeps over me, and a slow chill, teetering on the thin edge between arousal and fear, ambles down my spine.

I realize my mistake. I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed put, right where he left me.