Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
"Are you all right?"
I pretend to startle at the quiet, accented baritone behind me and a second time when an equally quiet man slips into my periphery.
"Shit, you're sneaky," I mutter. Yanking my zipper up to my neck, I grab the travel mug Maria's doe-eyed minion dropped off and angle toward him. "But what do you mean?"
Markovsky doesn't answer at first. Staring out across the winter gardens below, currently coated with a heavy layer of gray-white frost, he clasps his hands behind his back in a familiar, unconsciously formal stance. I watch as he tracks movement fifty yards out, right on the western edge of the hedges, and then hones in like a hawk on the long, purposeful stride of the tall blond walking the gravel path to the massive garage complex where Aronov keeps his toys.
His chin tilts in a discreet yet pointed gesture.
Like the civilian I'm claiming to be, I take my time following and sip the best coffee on the planet. It's scorching hot, and this morning, Maria's brew is strong enough to peel paint. In other words, it's fucking magnificent, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to try to lure that woman back to the Farm when all this is said and done.
"Okay?" I say, nearly sighing at the glorious heat rolling down my esophagus and warming my chest. "Sasha, you're going to have to give me a little more to go on than that."
Markovsky's lips twitch, and those pale, silver-gray eyes of his dance when he peers down at me. "It would seem there was… accident yesterday."
Fuck.
While I knew this was a likely eventuality, the rumor mill in this place is un-fucking-real, and my stomach gives an involuntary lurch at the fact that it's this particular man who confronts me. Manipulating a lovesick Aronov is one thing, but Markovsky's a different animal altogether.
"What are you talking about?" The words punch out in clouds of white, swirling steam, and my brows climb my forehead in alarm, even as my grip on my mug clenches. "What happened?"
With another barely-there nod to the younger man eating up the length of the courtyard, Markovsky shrugs. "Kaius was… vague in his explanations, but it appears that he… how to say it, vyvikhnul plecho." A furrow bisects his forehead when he pauses. "His shoulder was damaged, joint is out of place."
"Ouch." I wince and make a show of rubbing my neck and shoulder over the thin, high-tech thermal quilting of my coat. "That sounds painful."
He shrugs again. "There are worse things."
I've said it before, but this guy has an absolute gift for understatement. Truly, and it makes me wonder just what kind of nightmare it would take to cut through all that dry impassivity.
But then again, at least on this, he's not wrong. There's definitely worse.
A lot worse.
I don't say that, however. No, I just throw a little horror into my mock alarmed expression.
Markovsky tuts and flips an indifferent hand. "Such injuries are minor inconvenience, if somewhat unpleasant," he says, and I don't miss the humor riding his inflection. "It is my understanding that Kaius told Feliks to… readjust it early this morning." His lips curve ever so slightly. "Feliks is not what you call gentle."
It takes a real concerted effort not to laugh because I'd have given a lot of money to see that.
"But wait," I say, and then stop to take another sip of caffeinated perfection to mask my amusement. My nose crinkles as I go back and forth between the man beside me and the one about to disappear into the garage. "Doesn't Misha have a nurse on staff? Couldn't she have helped with that?"
I know he does – two, in fact.
Someone has to keep Aronov's prisoner alive.
"Indeed." Markovsky inclines his head as he turns to study me. "Curious, is it not?" When he smiles this time, there's something distinctly predatory in his features, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
But again, I don't say a fucking word. I simply continue standing there drinking my coffee, seemingly oblivious to his probing, even though my insides are crawling.
We're quiet for a moment, neither of us willing to break the standstill. A deep, growly, high-powered motor revs in the distance, amplified and echoing inside the stone and plaster walls. The garage's large, hangar-like door lifts a beat later.
"You know, karate is very useful skill," Markovsky finally says, and it's such an offhand, blandly spoken statement that my head automatically swivels toward him and tilts. For a second, I can't decide if he's talking to me or if he's musing to himself.
Before I can ask, there's another rev of an engine, and then an aggressive, low-slung, candy apple red supercar roars out of the garage. It fishtails across the drive, kicking up a spray of pebbles, before flying toward the main gate.
I really don't want to know how much Aronov paid for that overpowered monstrosity. Still, it's a ridiculous choice for winter driving, especially on the narrow, winding roads surrounding the estate and vineyards. That said, considering what I've seen from Koshmarin, it fits that motherfucker like a glove.
Maybe he'll wreck.
Scowling at the show, Markovsky makes a low, disapproving sound in the back of his throat.
"You were saying?" I ask, prompting while I try and fail to hide my smile.
Markovsky just snorts and mutters something very insulting at the other man under his breath. Flashing me a row of straight, pearly teeth, he then turns thoughtful, again almost musing.
"But yes, karate is very useful," he says. "Teaches discipline and respect. Builds strength and agility." He nods to himself. "With capable instructor and training, physically weaker and smaller individual can overcome much stronger and bigger opponent."
I arch a brow, never mind that I think we both know what's going on at this point.
"It is why I insisted on this for my Masha." Markovsky looks out across the gardens, pinpointing Dmitri and Masen standing next to a pair of boxy, jet-black G-class SUVs, already lined up and running at idle.
Judging by the heavy-duty suspensions, grill guards, and blacked-out windows, I'd bet my paycheck those vehicles are armored, and today, an MP5K subcompact hangs across Dmitri's chest. Another sits on top of a hood, waiting for Feliks. Even Masen's decked out in the sleek, dark, bespoke suit that marks him as Aronov's.
It certainly sends a message: Do not fucking engage.
"Masha has excellent instructor. I selected him myself," Markovsky continues. This time, when we make eye contact, his skin pulls tight across his cheekbones, and there's no disguising the simmering fury beneath the surface. "While I hope it never becomes necessary, in time, my daughter will be able to defend herself against anyone who wishes to harm her."
Like the other day when we stood outside Aronov's private study, it's yet another glimpse into the private life of this very private man, and I'm fascinated by it.
Buying a little time, I take a long drink of my coffee before slowly tipping my chin in approval.
"As I told you before, my wife is more… traditional. She does not possess such skills." He frowns, glances down at the ornate, etched stone decking of the terrace, and resumes his formal stance with his hands folded neatly behind his back. "I do not want my daughter to have the same vulnerability."
I'm not stupid. I'm well aware that Markovsky's baiting me and drawing me out, but I know he's showing me something real here, too. And again, I'm reminded that despite what likely started as a political play and despite this man's numerous sins and decades of violence, he loves his family, especially the tiny, gray-eyed girl who wears her father's face.
Enough that he doesn't want them to have any part in this world.
"That sounds like a smart idea," I say, trailing off. I hesitate and motion toward the compound wall, where a pair of sharp-eyed guards in matte black tactical gear stroll by. That black and tan, face-eating Malinois paces between them. "You know, considering all of this."
"Yes." Markovsky's focus narrows in on my face. "And I would be very surprised if the late Charles Swan did not have similar views for his own daughter."
There it is.
Granted, it's not exactly new information. I'm the one who told Aronov that I could defend myself just fine that very first night at the opera. I confirmed it yet again to Masen the night Kaius' man attacked me in Vienna… before we came to our little understanding.
Nonetheless, that fist in my gut squeezes under Markovsky's scrutiny, and I will myself not to shake when I steel my spine and quietly ask him, "Are you suggesting I had something to do with Kaius' accident?"
Markovsky pauses long enough to dismiss another one of Maria's minions when she pops out onto the terrace to offer him morning tea. "It is one possibility."
"What's the other?"
"Perhaps it was one of Misha's security staff. Dmitri, maybe. They are not friends." His shoulders roll with casual uncertainty, but his tone offers nothing of the sort. "Or perhaps, it was Edward, but even that is… very unlikely scenario."
Reluctantly polishing off my coffee, I set my mug on the nearby railing. "Why's that?"
The older man chuckles. "Kaius is arrogant, ill-tempered, and often foolish, but I do not think he is so stupid to attempt that one, at least not directly." When he gives me a familiar, conspiratorial smile, I start. And now I really want to know just how much this guy knows about Prague. "Kaius does not possess such expertise. He would lose very quickly, and he knows this."
Masen's words echo in my ears.
My throat bobs behind the upturned collar of my coat. "Maybe it was just an accident."
"Perhaps."
Jesus, Spooky would love this man.
Behind us, I pick up the soft whine of the hinges, and the same young brunette in starched black and white darts across the terrace to whisk my empty mug off the railing, only to deposit a fresh one in its place. I send her a quick, genuinely grateful, silent thanks before pivoting back to Markovsky. "What does Misha think?"
"Mikhail is not yet aware." All hint of amusement vanishes. "If he were, Kaius would not be walking. He would be strung up and beaten within an inch of his life, or beyond."
I suck in a shaky breath.
"This bothers you?"
Grabbing my fresh mug, I wrap both hands around it as if to warm them, and my lips turn down into a harsh grimace. "I'm not used to this kind of violence."
"You will be." Something new creeps into his voice. It's reminiscent of Aronov's patient indulgence, although far more paternal in its flavor. "It is inevitable for one in your position."
"That is… not reassuring," I tell him and slug back a drink. This round's damned near boiling, hot enough that I almost have to spit it out, but at this point, the last thing I'm worried about is a burned tongue and a little coughing. "You really should work on that. People might like you more."
Markovsky barks out a quiet, unexpected laugh and shakes his head at me before once more going silent. Giving me a moment of reprieve, he shifts back to the gardens, but a few seconds later, so softly I almost miss it, he asks, "Would you prefer that I do not share my thoughts with Misha?"
Everything – the two men in dark suits standing out in the courtyard, the tiny brown birds in the gardens, flitting from bush to bush, the pale white steam swirling up from my coffee, even my heart, steadily hammering inside my chest – comes to a grinding halt. For a long, still moment, I don't reply. A war wages inside my head as I debate what game he's truly playing here.
This is the shit I warned Rosalie about.
This is why this motherfucker is FSB.
Fuck.
When Markovsky looks at me again, still projecting an unnerving level of calm and patience, I swallow my pounding heart, take a page from Masen, and go with the truth, or at least something close to it.
"You're right. I'm not helpless, nor am I naïve," I say, gazing down at the gardens where the early morning sunlight bounces and shimmers off the frost. "I know there are some problems going on right now and that Mikhail is stressed."
Clearing my throat, I chew the inside of my cheek and fidget with my mug, letting him see what he wants. "And I realize that it's probably hard to believe, but I do care for him… a lot." I chuff out a humorless laugh and stare off in the distance. "Frankly, maybe more than I should if you think about our differences and how long we've known each other."
When Markovsky doesn't respond, I peek over to give him a wobbly, self-conscious smile, and my voice drops to a whisper. "I just… I don't want to cause him more trouble and worry, and I don't want him to have to choose between his people and me." I swallow. "I know he'll choose me. He's been very clear about that. You have, too. And that scares me."
Sure, we'll go with that.
Markovsky tsks but then dips his head once in a shallow, curt agreement. "All right. I will keep this secret between us for now, and we will hope that mudak has learned you are not so easy prey." He studies me with the precision and focus of the expert hunter he is. "But Bella, this cannot occur again."
"I–"
A hand slices the air. "If Kaius – or anyone else – even looks at you with disrespect, you must tell Misha immediately." He frowns. "Or you can tell me if you are afraid. Or Edward or even Dmitri. It will be taken care of." Markovsky's features turn sharp as blades. "You must understand that this is not only for your safety. This is about who you are to Misha. Such insubordination and disrespect to you is direct attack on him. It undermines his authority and cannot be tolerated."
So, I'm not about to think I've won this guy over. Nor do I think I've completely fooled him. But my internal radar – something that has never failed me, not once in all my years – goes oddly silent, and I'm near certain that for whatever his reasons or motivation, Markovsky doesn't want me dead, at least not today.
And for now, that's good enough.
"Why?" I ask.
"As you say, you are not his usual companion."
That's for damned sure.
For a second, I think Markovsky wants to say something else, but he stops short when Aronov's voice filters out from inside the house. Instead, he shakes his head – at himself or me, I don't know – spins on his heel, and then calls over his shoulder. "Be careful, Isabella Swan, and do not forget what I told you."
Right before the older man slips away, I stop him with a softly spoken address, and when he looks back, I shoot him a little grin. "When Masha's a few years older, swap her over to something like Krav Maga," I say. "It's what my dad always recommended for women and self-defense." I wink, and then my grin morphs into a mischievous smirk. "Nothing's off limits."
With nothing more than a quiet rumble of laughter, Markovsky disappears, leaving me alone on the terrace. It's quiet out here – beautiful, peaceful, and calm – and when I breathe in the crisp morning air, it tastes clean and fresh, touched by the rich aroma of my coffee and the barest hint of evergreen from the hedges down in the gardens.
Of course, my moment of peace and quiet ends before I can blink, interrupted by another swing of the door and leather-soled shoes rapping against the stone tile.
Playing my part, I keep my eyes on the gardens until an arm snakes beneath mine to circle my waist and then pulls my back against a firm, warm chest.
"Dobroye utro, lyubimaya moya," Aronov murmurs as he buries his face in my hair. He lingers there, inhaling as if to breathe me in, before moving down to my throat, where his lips press soft, repeating kisses to the sensitive skin beneath my ear. He chuckles when I shiver, never mind my reaction has absolutely nothing to do with attraction. "Did you rest well?"
"I always sleep well in your bed." I lean against him like I know he wants, and his arm cinches even tighter. Reaching up to rub his cheek, I scratch my nails through his coarse, neatly-trimmed beard, and this time, it's his turn to tremble. I check my wrist. "But aren't you supposed to be in some meeting by now?"
"They will wait." Aronov scoffs and continues his assault on my throat, this time sucking and adding in the nip of teeth until I laugh and twist around in his embrace.
Before I know it, my back hits the concrete pillar behind us. Wresting my mug away, Aronov grins at my petulant glare and then guides my palms up the soft, finely spun charcoal wool of his sweater to loop his neck. His hands drop to my hips, and long fingers spread, bracketing my waist as his thumbs sneak beneath my coat and shirt to stroke bare skin.
"Much, much better," he whispers, and his mouth hovers right over mine.
"Is that right?" I say, lifting a playfully arrogant brow as I rock up to my toes and drag him closer. Running my nose along his jaw, I breathe the warm, masculine sweetness of his cologne and slide my fingertips inside the stiff white cotton of his collar.
"Oh, yes." Closing his eyes, Aronov hums his approval. "I love your hands on me, almost as much as I love touching you."
Flitting at the edge of my sight, I register movement out in the courtyard, and when I slant my lips over Aronov's in the slow, wet, open-mouth kiss he craves, I don't have to look to know that a pair of dark green eyes are watching me. I feel that helpless anger and energy like a hot caress, and I get it, too. If I had to watch him play house with that blonde Snegurochka from Vienna, I'd fucking stab someone.
For Masen's sanity and mine, I drop to my heels and give my pretend lover a teasing smile. "So, tell me, just what are you going to do with yourself while I'm out getting primped for your fancy party?"
Aronov grins, and the muscles beneath my fingers flex with the easy motion of his shoulders. "Mergers, acquisitions, budget approvals… you know, the usual."
"That sounds…" My nose wrinkles as I smooth his collar back in place. "Almost as fun as shopping with Rose."
Belting out a laugh, Aronov spins us, swapping our positions, and leans back on the edge of the wide, concrete railing. "My accountants have some reports for me to review," he says, tugging me closer until I'm standing between his thighs. Now that we're close to the same height, his eyes, dark and alive, wander my face with a pathological intentness that runs one-hundred-and-eighty degrees from the casualness of his tone. "And this afternoon, I must speak with my attorneys on some matters."
"Is everything okay?"
The cheerful, relaxed façade cracks for a split second, and his grin falters. It's back before I can blink, however, and he just shrugs. "Just annoyance from some busybodies in Brussels." His fingers comb through my hair, and a thumb ghosts across my cheekbone like I'm fine porcelain. "These things happen from time to time. Everything will be fine."
"Good. I'm glad," I tell him, and like that day in his study, I knead his shoulders, massaging away the tension until he lets out a breathy groan of relief. "You have a lot going on anyway."
"My God." Groaning again, Aronov rolls his neck to nudge me upward. "I swear, if you would do this for me every day, you would make me your slave."
"Are you sure you aren't already?" I laugh, digging in deeper to target the older knots. "Or… at least that's what you were saying last night when I had your cock in my mouth."
Aronov freezes, and his air catches in his throat. Heat and arousal instantly spark in his eyes, and the fingers in my hair spasm, winding tighter and tugging at my scalp. "Beautiful, wicked woman," he says, almost purring. "You would make me suffer today while you are away?"
Well, I wouldn't be opposed to it.
Although, I doubt we're talking about the same brand of suffering here.
"Maybe." When he grimaces, I laugh harder, then I capture his face between my palms and plant slow, sweet, closed-mouthed kisses on his lips and cheeks until his whole body relaxes and melts against mine. "How about I make it up to you tonight?"
Aronov lets out an exaggerated sigh, and when he stares back at me, there's a potent blend of need and adoration in every one of his angular, aristocratic features. "Then it is a suffering I will happily endure." His brows hit his hairline. "Provided, of course, that you permit me to return such favors."
Ugh.
A loud yell from the courtyard saves me from responding, and I turn my head just in time to watch Dmitri snap out an order to Feliks as he exits the main house. Sporting my best pissy glare, I thumb toward the pair of idling SUVs. "You should know, I'm still not happy about this. You're being absurd."
Glancing over his shoulder to our little motorcade, Aronov gives me a bland, apologetic smile that we both know he doesn't mean. "Nonetheless, you will humor me."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Konechno, and this matter is closed," he says. While he's still all smiles and gentle touches, a sliver of steel hardens his voice, matched by a darker glint in his eye. It's a subtle – maybe even unconscious – warning from a very dangerous man who's used to getting his way, telling me not to push him too far.
I huff. "Fine."
In another one of those lightning-fast mood swings of his, the darkness vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and Aronov's face splits in two as he brushes a few strands of windswept hair off my forehead. "I have told Feliks to take you anywhere you wish to go. Buy whatever you like." Leaning down, he whispers in my ear. "There is nothing off limits to you, my love."
You know, except for privacy and traveling without armed guards.
"Careful… You may want to rethink that little statement." Tucking a hand inside his belt, I jerk him closer and do my own whispering, purposefully grazing the shell of his ear with my lips and tongue until he twitches against me. "What if I want some stupidly fast sports car? Maybe something with a long Italian name and an even longer price tag... Maybe like ones you have in that warehouse you call a garage?"
His Adam's apple bobs beneath his collar. "I would simply ask your preference in color."
"Black, obviously," I tell him, rolling my eyes because he's honestly not kidding. "Red's just obnoxious." I snicker as I picture Koshmarin's flashy, fishtailing exit a few minutes ago. "Plus, I'd get too many tickets."
Aronov just waves that off – granted, he's probably never had a ticket stick in his whole life – and I can't help but sigh at his never-ending excess, even as I walk my fingers back up and down his chest. "You really are… a lot to handle."
And, of course, that's a compliment in his book, and his eyes glitter with amusement and affectionate delight.
Before he can reply or call me on my flirty advances, there's an impatient knock on the glass behind me. When I peek over my shoulder, I see Rosalie – finally ready – standing on the other side of the massive window in all her blonde, model-worthy glory. She fists her hips, and that woman has the nerve to tap her toe at me like I'm the one running behind.
Bitch.
.
.
.
Notes:
Okay, for those on FB who saw the teaser with the pic of Alice, you guessed it… This chap started running long (again). Instead of a monster chapter like the last round, I opted to break this one up. The good news is Chap 34 won't take too long since it's already halfway written. And yes, there will be more Edward. :)
Also, since it's been asked a couple of times: Most modern transliteration methodologies (Gost, ISO, British Standard, ALA, etc) map the Russian Cyrillic letter "е" to the Latin letter "e". So, while "нет" (Russian for no) sounds like something close to "nyet", if you're following transliteration rules, you write it as "net". If you see "nyet" in Western fiction, it's likely the writer doesn't know, is following a less common mapping, or is just trying to depict the sound of it. For the most part, I'm following the standard mapping used for signs and passports, which is pretty much what many of the leading online translators use, as well – it's easy and clean, and it also matches up nicely to my mnemonic Russian keyboard.
Russian (transliterated):
[On] vyvikhnul plecho: [He] dislocated his shoulder
Mudak: insult, roughly asshole, moron, idiot, etc
Dobroye utro, lyubimaya moya: Good morning, my love/beloved
Snegurochka: The Snow Maiden, a character in Russian folklore. You might recall this is what Bella called one of the blondes from the party at the Schönbrunn in Vienna
Konechno: of course
Glossary:
Krav Maga: literally "contact combat" is a military self-defense and fighting system developed for the Israel Defense Forces. It's based on a combination of aikido, boxing, judo, karate, and wrestling techniques. It focuses on real-world situations and is known for its extreme efficiency.
