Page 3 of His Prince (Unexpectedly Twisted #2)

“Yes.”

“Why did he bring me here?” I ask, and her lips form a tight line.

“It’s best you realize that Mikhail will never love you. He’s a cold, hard man. It’s best you know this now while you still can.”

I swallow as I tug the robe on, feeling the soreness in my ass prickle up my spine. It’s not a delicious ache anymore, but something ugly and raw. I want it to go away.

“You have to be mistaken,” I whisper as she opens the door and nods at it.

“I am never mistaken,” she says and then pushes me out of the room in a hurry, probably to make space for the next guest.

The thought of it makes my stomach churn, and I lean against the wall, feeling suddenly dizzy.

Breathing through my nose, I right myself, knowing that I need to gather myself before finding Mikhail and getting some much-needed answers. This was not in the contract when I agreed to marry him.

I read through it.

Even though I didn’t think I needed to—because I trusted him—I fucking read it.

I blink back tears and run a hand through my hair, feeling my ass twinge as I make my way up the stairs to my bedroom.

Our bedroom.

Anger pulses through me, dulling the ache of sadness.

I’m going to change, right myself, and then find him to make him fucking explain.

Yes, I’ll make him fucking explain. And I won’t cry while doing it.

I stomp up to our bedroom and pull on my clothes with a vengeance, trying to ignore the pain in my ass as I move. I’m in disbelief and horrified. Did Mikhail only fuck me on our wedding night to consummate the marriage? To make sure that his end of the contract was solidified?

That’s so unlike him.

Unless I didn’t know him at all.

For a moment I feel sick, but I take a deep breath and push it aside.

No. I’ve gotten to know him over the past several months.

I know him.

Communication goes a long way. No, I won’t think the worst. Nina must be mistaken. Maybe that’s how things were before, but surely they’ll change now that he’s married. I’m his husband, we’re sharing a room for the foreseeable future, andthere’s a contract in place.

I run a comb through my damp hair, smoothing out my blouse and skinny jeans and toeing on some sneakers before taking one last look at myself and marching out of our room in search of him. The house is large, bigger than my dad’s, and quite cavernous. While the Costello estate is expansive and luxurious, it’s also full of life, color and art—it feels homey, like my mother always wanted. Unlike this place. Here, the walls are white, the floors a dull gray wood, everything is barren and cold.

I assumed the Ivanov residence would be lavish and ostentatious, but it’s not. It’s as if everything that made this a home once upon a time has been stripped bare.

I huff as I make my way down a hallway on the second floor before turning around and heading back. Obviously I went the wrong way. The rooms I peek in as I go are closed up and covered, used for guests. The unfuckable kind, I presume.

I shake that thought away as I make my way to the first floor, in search of his elusive office. There’s no one around to ask either. Where the hell are all the staff? At my father’s house, there are guards and soldiers everywhere. But here, it’s as if no one exists, just ghosts of the past.

My body aches. I’m exhausted and sore, ready to lie in bed for hours, but unable to do so when this is niggling in the back of my mind. Why would he do this? Lie to me all this time, only to walk away? He didn’t need to.

Mikhail maintains his own business, a successful one. He runs an illegal arms trade and launders money here on the East Coast. He doesn’t need my father’s connections or money. And my father doesn’t need him—not necessarily.

The contract between them could have been solidified without marriage. There were other ways to ensure my safety.

I walk past the laundry room and then the dining room, turning down a corridor, all the doors shut. It’s silent in here, cold, and loneliness sweep over me like a tidal wave.

I wish Casey were here with me, so I could have someone to talk to, to smile at, but I gave him the day off, thinking I would be spending it with Mikhail.

How wrong I was.

I push open a door and peer inside. It’s empty, a room with nothing in it.

I close it with a snick and move to the next one. And the next.

I don’t find his office until I open the last door. I would never have known it was his. There are no guards outside the door, nothing grandiose about it. It’s just another room situated at the end of a long hallway.

I step inside and note the lack of light coming in from the windows as I glance around. They must be tinted. The room is dark, no one inside it.

“Mikhail?” I call out, but no one answers.

I huff in frustration as I flick on a light.

I recognize this room as I make my way around it. This is where he sat as he spoke to me all those nights, whispering lies into my ears .

I step up to a bookshelf behind his desk and take in the Russian titles.

He told me about these.

“I brought my books here from my grandfather’s house in Russia, took a piece of my childhood with me when my family moved to America.”

I force my gaze away, rubbing at my chest as I move around the walls. If I know one thing, it’s that these mafia men have a thing for hidden spaces. There’s no one out in the hallways so they must be tucked away inside the walls. If I look hard enough, I’ll find a secret passageway. I’m sure of it.

A good mob boss always has an easy escape in their office so they can come and go as they please.

My fingers slide across the muted wallpaper, digging into the corners of the shelves and baseboards until I find what I’m looking for.

I press on something small and thin tucked away next to the fireplace, and suddenly the wall pops open, a dark space looming before me.

I fucking knew it.

Grabbing my phone, I tap on the flashlight and step inside.

The darkness doesn’t terrify me like it should. It’s what’s lurking in the corners, what they want to keep hidden down here that makes me nervous.

Years ago, my father tried to make me immune to it, tried to harden me by forcing me to watch what they did to people, to their enemies.

It broke something in me, tore it in half.

It’s only recently started to heal.

I can thank my twin brother, Diablo, for that. He made sure to protect me, came alongside me and made my father promise to stop subjecting me to the horrors.

I never set foot down in his catacombs again.

And yet here I am, making my way down a set of damp steps through a dirt tunnel. There’s only one tunnel, it seems—not the maze my dad has—but still, it’s spooky and unlit. And it’s deathly quiet down here. No screams to be heard.

I hold my breath and then exhale as I move forward, unsure where this leads but knowing I need to find out.

I need to know what’s going on.

I need to know if I’ve truly made a huge mistake.

I continue walking, my shoes scuffing across the dirt floor, my hands starting to shake as I continue deeper and deeper below.

Where the fuck am I going?

Just as I think that, the tunnel ends and I see stairs to the right and another set to the left. Fuck, which one do I pick first? Because let’s be honest. I’m going to find out where both lead.

I move to my right, traversing the wet and muddy stairs to a metal door. There is no lock or keypad, so I just push it open, blinking furiously in the daylight streaming through the opening. And smoke. Lots and lots of cigarette smoke.

It’s silent except for the sound of breathing and the crunch of someone chewing food.

As my vision comes back, I see that I’ve just stepped foot into a domicile full of bodyguards.

So this is where they’re at.

“Oh. Hello,” I say, feeling my face flush, my hand moving up to swat the smoke that is looming around me. Is this where Casey is staying? Fuck, please don’t let Casey be here. I don’t want him to see me and wonder what I’m doing walking through underground tunnels in the middle of the day.

He’ll worry. That’s what he does. It’s always been like this between us.

“Sorry to intrude,” I say when silence continues to greet me, my eyes wandering around the space. I take in around ten buff men, each wearing gold chains around their necks. They’re all wearing tracksuits or athletic shorts with name-brand shirts stretched across their wide chests. A few are watching some sports game on a large flatscreen television, and others are at a table, playing cards. One is even running on a treadmill…while smoking a cigarette.

My gaze turns to two men sitting on the closest couch, smoke billowing around them, glasses of clear liquid in crystal cups.

Is that vodka?

“I was just um, exploring.”

“Do we need to neutralize him?” the man on the treadmill asks with a Russian accent and another man just scoffs.

“Fuck no. Not unless you want to lose your head. This is Mikhail’s husband, you dumb shit,” another says.

The way he says that last word makes me flush. “Hi, yes, I am. And I’ll make sure you keep your heads. Um, it’s so nice to meet you.”

My gaze sweeps around the room. This space isn’t as cold and lifeless as the main house, but it still lacks color and warmth.

Poor Casey. I’ll have to ask how I can make his stay more comfortable.

His stay…as if we’re at a hotel.

Fuck, this is my damn life. Casey may be stuck here for as long as I am.

Maybe I’ll paint the damn walls, brighten this place up a bit.

No one responds, just continues staring at me.

“Anyway, what are the chances you’ll forget you saw me here?” I ask, and the one who declared I was Mikhail’s husband shrugs. “What’s in it for us?”

“Um, fresh baked cookies and fresh flowers?”

They stare at me in disbelief before one of them finally cracks.

“How about some Russian bread?” the man on the treadmill suggests.

“I don’t…I really don’t know if I have the stuff to make that. But I can try.”

“Or maybe syrniki,” another chimes in.

“Oh, well…”

“Fuck that. I want varenye. ”

I don’t know what any of those are and I’m feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

“I can try. I’ll try my best, but if I don’t have the ingredients for those Russian dishes, would cookies work?”

They all stare at me, taking sips of their vodka as they ponder it.

Finally the one on the treadmill grunts, “Alright. Sounds good, little husband. Bring us the goods and we’ll see how long we keep your fucking secret.”

I nod and smile at them, my heart thundering in my chest. I don’t know if I made a good impression, but I’ll take it. And I’ll try my best to give them all the Russian food.

All of them.

“Okay. Sounds good. I’ll be back soon with… something .”

“You better,” one of them says, and I leave to the sound of muffled Russian words, the door slamming shut behind me. I let out a loud breath and hope like fuck Mikhail doesn’t find out I’ve been sneaking around.

If he hadn’t coldly walked away from me after fucking me, I would have shown him all my cards, but now I think it’s better to hold everything tightly, tuck it deep down and reveal it only if I think it’s safe.

Right now, I don’t know if it is.

I’m second-guessing everything at the moment.

I walk to the other set of stairs, this set not as steep as the one leading into the bodyguards’ house, and glance at the steel door. Once more, there’s no keypad, nothing to keep people out. I wonder how many people know about this tunnel.

Probably not many.

Mikhail should really make sure things are more secure.

I tuck that thought away as I pull the door open and take in the musty smell permeating the air.

I inhale through my mouth, sweeping my flashlight around, trying like hell to make out what this space is. Looks like a sort of panic room. Somewhere you can safely hide in an emergency. I take a few steps inside and make out a small bed, a toilet next to a sink, and shelves of food.

What the hell is this? Is Mikhail a prepper? Is he awaiting Armageddon? Some kind of end-of-the-world collapse? Or maybe this is where he’ll go if things start to unravel.

I don’t know if I want to know. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I want to know. I want to know the kind of man I married. Because it seems I got some of it wrong.

“Look at you. So beautiful, sólnyshko.”

I shake that memory away and close the door, realizing that Mikhail isn’t here. Apparently, he doesn’t want to be found.

I huff in frustration. I traversed this tunnel for nothing and now I need to return with flowers and cookies so that his bodyguards keep their mouths shut. When I have more time, I’ll inspect the house further, needing to find those little secrets that he keeps hidden.

I make my way back the way I came, pushing on the panel and walking into his office.

It’s empty, nothing but the sound of my shoes padding across the carpet.

I let out a little sigh, push my way out of the office, and meander around, trying to understand the layout of this mansion. For a moment, when I first arrived, I had hope that it could feel like home, but now it just feels chilly and dark. Constricting. Like a tomb.

My eyes start to water, the weight of what I’ve done nearly swallowing me whole, but I shove the emotion down.

I can have a breakdown later. Right now I need to make something for Mikhail’s men and find some flowers. I always keep my word.

I continue to make my way around, getting lost several times before finally finding the kitchen. It’s new with white cabinets and white marble counters. New stainless-steel appliances sit unused in the empty space, nothing cooking on the stove, nothing baking in the oven. Who the hell cooks meals for everyone around here ?

I peer into the pantry, eyeing unopened food scattering the shelves. Whoever shopped isn’t using the food lining them.

That needs to be rectified.

Since I can’t find my husband, I guess I’m the one to do it.

So, I get to work, putting on a wrinkled apron and pulling out my phone. I look up the food the bodyguards had mentioned, misspelling each far too many times. But I realize with each one that I don’t have all the ingredients, so I settle for baking chocolate chip cookies and making a note to make sure I have all the items for Russian dishes in the future.

While those go into the oven to bake, I also get started on dinner. I rummage through the freezer and pantry, finding all the ingredients I can use to make chili.

I don’t know who feeds these people. But they obviously don’t have an Agatha here to dote on everyone, to feed them until their stomachs nearly explode.

So I guess it has to be me. I don’t mind doing it. At the moment, it’s keeping my mind off things. Like the ache in my ass and the fact Mikhail is still nowhere to be found.

And I don’t know where he went.

He fucked me on our wedding night and left.

I stir the pot a little too harshly, some splashing out onto the apron, a drop hitting my hand and making me wince.

If I keep this up, I’m going to end up throwing the pot across the room.

I don’t even know if these tracksuit-wearing bodyguards even like chili, for fuck’s sake.

I just need to speak to him. If Mikhail isn’t in this for me, if he’s just using me, then I’ll make him fucking pay. But right now, we need to talk. If only I could find him.

The timer goes off and I pull the cookies from the oven, letting them cool for a few minutes. I lean my hip against the counter and text Mikhail, asking him where he is and if we can meet to talk.

It goes unanswered, making my eyes water and my blood boil. An interesting mix of emotions swirls around inside of me as I plate the cookies in a container and cover the pot of chili. I have no idea how I’m going to get this all to them—didn’t quite think that through.

As I search for someone, anyone to help me, my frustration grows by the minute, almost spilling over. Suddenly I see someone pass by, a large, looming figure wearing a suit.

I’m not even cowed.

“Hey,” I say loudly, making the man stop and turn toward me. He blinks, his shirt buttoned up and ironed immaculately, the hair on his head perfectly coifed. His eyes are almost black, matching the color of his suit. I have no idea who this is, but I do know one thing. He’s helping me carry the food to the bodyguards.

“I need your help. Please.”

He blinks at me again, but moves toward me when I hand him the oven mitts and the pot of chili.

“I’m bringing this to the bodyguards. Do you know how to get to their…” I don’t know what to call it. “…house?”

“Yes,” he finally says.

“Thank you,” I say, watching as he adjusts the lid and places the mitts on his hands. He clears his throat and then lifts it carefully before walking out of the kitchen.

“What’s your name?” I ask, smiling softly, trying to calm myself as I follow him through the house, carrying the container of cookies. I won’t take my frustration and anger out on him. He didn’t lie to me for months and leave me on my wedding night.

“Georgiy. But you can call me George,” he replies, his accent thick and deep.

“Hi, George. I’m Angel.”

“I know who you are. Mr. Ivanov told us about you.”

“Oh, did he?” I ask. “What did he say?”

“Just that you would be returning with him.”

“Nothing else?”

“No,” he says as he pushes his way outside. I follow him, the spring air slightly colder here in Upstate New York than I’m used to back in California. A shiver runs through me, but there’s no one around to notice. The outside is just as barren as the house. I don’t even hear any birds chirping. I don’t know how I missed this on my way in, but I must have just been so caught up in Mikhail that I didn’t notice it.

I noticed nothing, apparently.

“The bodyguards’ apartments are over here,” he says, his footsteps sure and steady. I stare down at his leather shoes and my eye catches on something on the tip. Is that blood? I sigh and force my gaze up. I don’t know who this man is, but obviously Mikhail trusts him enough to let him wander around the house without supervision.

“How long have you been working here?” I ask, and George doesn’t even look at me when he responds that he’s been here for ten years.

“Ah, and how do you like it here?”

He purses his lips. “It’s…entertaining.”

That surprises me, nothing here seems fun. But then again, maybe I’m missing something right before my eyes. Maybe it has something to do with the blood on the tip of his shoe. Maybe there’s something more alive in this tomb than meets the eye.

Before I can ask for clarification, we’re at the apartment complex on the other end of the property. It looks like a large dormitory in many ways, but is much more opulent with ornate designs near the windows and the corners. It’s so unlike the main house that I stop walking for a second and consider it.

Why is this so different? This building is lavish and gold, while the main house is drab and gray.

There’s a story there somewhere, one I will have to pull from whoever is willing to tell me, and it doesn’t seem like George is the one to do it.

George scans a card which is hanging on his belt and the glass doors open, leading us inside. I see a few men lounging on couches reading and smoking in a common area, but Casey is still not within sight. He’s probably still sleeping off the journey and the time difference, which is exactly what I want him to be doing. He needs to rest, someone has to. It surely won’t be me. I won’t be able to rest until I’ve spoken to my husband.

“George, what are you doing here?” one of the men asks, the same one who was on the treadmill earlier. His eyes catch mine, and he grins. “Ah, see you found our little husband.”

My smile falls slightly, unsure if that’s a term of endearment or something else. Are they mocking me? I don’t know. This place is so different from what I’m used to.

“Leave him alone,” another guy says, taking the pot from George and setting it on the counter. “He made us food.”

“I couldn’t find the ingredients for what you requested, so I just made cookies,” I explain, sliding up next to him and setting them on the counter.

The bodyguards descend on it, like starving animals, nearly shoving each other out of the way to get to food. Bowls are passed out and the chili is ladled.

“Does Mikhail not have a cook?” I whisper to George, who takes a step back and brushes at his suit jacket.

“No,” George says. “Nina is the closest to a live-in maid, but she’s not a cook. We fend for ourselves.”

I fold my arms across my chest, watching as the bodyguards shovel food into their mouths.

“If he has them living here, he should be feeding them…and you.”

“Damn right he should,” one of the men says around a mouthful.

I watch them for a moment more and then nod, not sure why I’ve decided to do this, but committing to it anyway.

“I’ll be making breakfast tomorrow, lunch and dinner as well. If I can, it will be Russian dishes. If not, it will be whatever I can conjure up. I’ll notify you of the times it will be ready and it will be up to you to make sure you grab it from the main house.”

They stop and stare at me, some with their mouths wide open .

“What about Mikhail? Does he approve of this?” one of them finally asks, and I shrug, feeling something ugly rear up inside of me.

“He’s not here, is he? And I’m his husband. I can do what I want.”

One of them nods, and then the rest, leaving them all standing there looking like bobbleheads. A moment later though, they’re back to eating, forgetting I exist.

“Thank you for your help,” I tell George, before pulling my phone out and staring down at the empty screen. Mikhail still hasn’t responded.

“You’re welcome,” he says, giving me a clipped nod and heading out.

I turn and follow after him, finding that I really have no one to talk to, to give me insight into what I’ve gotten myself into.

“Hey, George. Wait up,” I say, meeting his long strides. “I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

He eyes me and then focuses back on the horizon.

“I know things won’t be the same as where I grew up, but it seems there’s no one around…”

“Mr. Ivanov likes things to be inconspicuous. Doesn’t mean he’s not watching.”

I feel my chest tighten, my nerves starting to ping.

“What do you mean?”

“It means you’re being monitored. You may not realize it, but he sees it all.”

I swallow and rub at my neck, feeling like a butterfly caught in a bell jar.

“I see.”

“Yes, you will.”

My hand falls to my side and I straighten up. “Well, thank you for telling me this. Do you happen to know where Mikhail is?”

He peers at me as we stop at the front steps of the house.

“I don’t. Just that he left.”

My heart drops, and I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from crying .

“I see.”

“Good luck, varo?bushik,” George replies and then brushes his hand along his shirt, turns on his heel, and walks away, leaving me alone.

I inhale deeply, trying like hell not to let the tears fall.

Mikhail left me here, in a cavernous mansion, with only Casey as a familiar face. Everyone smokes and drinks and speaks Russian, calling me names I don’t understand.

My fingers swipe at my eyes and I straighten my shoulders, glancing around, trying to find the damn cameras, but unable to detect them.

If he left me here all alone, I’ll make this place my home.

And if he doesn’t like it, well, then he can fuck all the way off.

Because he sure as fuck isn’t fucking me.