Page 66 of Savage Vows

I sip my coffee, hiding the smallest smile behind the rim of the cup. For the first time, I’ve pried open a door. Now I just have to be smart enough to keep it from slamming shut.

Oleg is already waiting by the car, one hand on the roof, the other holding the keys with the sort of patient boredom only someone in this job could master. I move past him and yank open the front passenger door.

He pauses, brows drawing together. “The back seat, Mrs. Volkova.”

I fix him with what I hope is an innocent look. “No offense, but I’m not a hostage. I get carsick in the back.” I slide into the front, clutching my bag like it’s a weapon.

He hesitates, then shakes his head and sighs—very loudly, as if to make sure I hear it. “You know, most people prefer to be driven like royalty.”

I buckle my seat belt. “I was never very good at royalty.”

He gives me a look, somewhere between resigned and amused, and starts the engine. “Don’t touch the radio,” he warns.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, but my fingers are already hovering dangerously close to the buttons.

He side-eyes me. “You touch it, I’m putting on Russian talk radio for the entire ride.”

I laugh. For the first time in days, it feels real. “Noted. Truce?”

He grunts, but I catch the hint of a smile as he pulls out of the driveway.

We drive in companionable silence, the city slipping past the windows, Oleg occasionally grumbling at other drivers. I keep my gaze on the passing streets, letting old memories tug at me.

Then I spot it—a flash of stained glass, the familiar bell tower. The church.

My chest tightens.

“Saint Michael’s,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “My family used to come here.”

Anyaused to come here. That’s what Bella told me, and the lady at the party confirmed it. I’ve no idea who Anya is outside of herInstagram profile, and since she seemed to spend a lot of time at the church, this might be the perfect place to start finding out.

My pulse jumps. Something about the sight of it—so ordinary, so familiar—makes my mouth go dry. I need to see it up close, just for a moment.

“Oleg,” I say suddenly, “can we stop here for a minute?”

He glances over, suspicious. “Here? At the church?”

I scramble for an excuse. “I, um…just want to light a candle. For my mother. She’s been…on my mind.”

He looks unconvinced but slows anyway, pulling up to the curb. “Five minutes,” he says, gruff. “And I’m coming in with you. Last time someone said ‘just a minute,’ I ended up waiting in a parking lot for two hours.”

I snort, already unbuckling my seat belt. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. Besides, I doubt there’s much trouble to get into in a church.”

He mutters something in Russian under his breath, but signals and pulls over anyway. “You know, you’re making this job a lot less boring, Mrs. Volkova.”

I flash him a quick smile. “Glad to be of service, Oleg.”

I’m already out the door before he can change his mind, the old nerves fluttering in my stomach as I head up the steps. The church doors creak open, the scent of wax and old wood washing over me—a strange kind of homecoming, and maybe a chance to look for answers I’m not supposed to have.

The sanctuary is mostly empty, dust motes spinning in the shafts of colored light. I slip a few coins into the donation box and takea candle, pressing the match to the wick with shaky hands. As the little flame flickers to life, I let my eyes close, thinking of Julianne, the missing girls, and everything I lost and everything I don’t know how to find.

A voice startles me from behind, soft but wry. “Well, there’s something you don’t see every day. Adriana Petrova, lighting a candle in church.”

I turn, blinking, to find one of the sisters from the parish office, habit slightly crooked, mouth curved in a knowing smile. I remember her vaguely—always strict, always watching, a little too sharp for comfort.

“You never wanted to come here, did you?” she says, stepping closer. “You used to squirm through the whole service. But your sister—nowshewas devoted. Jules would help with every mass, every festival, always first to volunteer.”

“Jules was always special,” I murmur, more to myself than to her, as I stare at the wavering candlelight.