Anya’s voice is quiet. “We could just leave them there to rot.”
The corners of my lips curl up. “I would love nothing more. But we both know they would find a way to get to us.”
She nods somberly. “I know.”
I rub her back slowly before I speak, hoping my touch calms her. “Nikolai told me we should text a picture of the marriage certificate to Renata…to keep them from killing you on sight.” Those words feel so vile as they break from my lips.
“It won’t stop them from hurting you, Ezra.” She looks at me so sadly, it feels like my heart is in a vice.
“I know that. But I stand a better chance if they know that you’re…” I hesitate to say it, “Nikolai’s wife.
She pinches her eyes shut. When she opens them again, she slides from my lap, crawling slowly around Nikolai’s dead body to retrieve the box he left for her. She pulls out the marriage certificate and lays it on the floor beside her. I pull Nikolai’s cell phone from my pocket.
And I realize it’s locked.
“I’m gonna have to…use his fingerprint,” I warn Anya—knowing the idea of lifting a dead man’s hand to use his fingerprint to unlock his phone is morbid.
Her head bobs in something resembling a nod and she turns her attention away. I’d be lying to say I’m not bothered by her reaction to his death. This would all be so much easier if the death of her two sadistic masters brought her relief instead of agony. Vigo and Nikolai are both dead, and I don’t entirely understand why she seems so upset by the loss. I just want to know what’s going on inside her mind.
I get access to the phone and the first thing I do is change the fingerprint unlocking access so I don’t have to use a dead man’s finger ever again. Anya has smoothed the certificate out on the floor and I go to her, holding the phone above to take a clear picture of it—I do the same with the document showing the official name change. I find Renata’s number and send her the pics, followed by a quick text message.
NIKOLAI: Nikolai is dead, but not the last Mikhailov. Anya is his wife.
Anya comes up next to me as I press send. We watch the phone silently as we wait for a reply. Within minutes, the phone rings. Renata’s name flashes across the screen with her call.
“Let me talk,” she says, taking the phone from me and tapping to answer. “This is Anya.”
“I want proof that Nikolai is dead.” Renata’s voice is smooth on the other end of the line.
“I will send you a video of his lifeless body if that would satisfy you,” Anya says with an unusual edge to her voice.
“It would,” Renata replies. “We’ll be arriving in six hours. Have someone meet us at the helipad.”
“Why? So you can kill us on sight? I want a guarantee that our fate will be considered judiciously.”
“We consider all matters of the four families judiciously.” There’s a pause. “Though I wish to cut out your heart and keep it as a trophy for what you’ve done to my brother. You’re lucky that I care more for my home and family than I care for your pathetic life. My family needs my leadership…now more than ever. And I’ll be damned if I let my hatred for you get in the way of doing what must be done.”
Anya’s eyes show panic, fear, and a hint of curiosity, but she speaks with smoothness and determination. “I want confirmation from a Head of House. From Murphy O’Shea. If I’m not afforded the courtesy of the board to determine my fate fairly, then you can walk from the helipad to Mikhailov Manor for all I care. And knowing you, Renata, I imagine your current footwear is inappropriate for such a journey through the wilderness.”
There’s silence from Renata’s end and fuck, I want to cheer for my girl. For all she’s been through—all the pain, humiliation, for all the near-death experiences—she is still one brilliant, beautiful, powerhouse of a woman.
“Fine,” Renata finally concedes. “I will have him call.”
The phone beeps and the call ends from Renata’s end of the line. We wait for a few minutes for Murphy to call, but I think we both realize they’re going to make us wait for it. They want to keep the upper hand, as if Anya and I could ever hope to have a hand-up on them.
With a sigh, she holds out the phone for me to take and I put it in my back pocket for safe keeping. I hesitate in the quiet between us for a few moments before working up the nerve to ask the question that feels heavy in this space.
“Do you think we should find out if you’re…” I trail off, wondering if I should even have brought it up right now.
She looks over at me, concern flashing off the sapphire blue of her eyes. She clears her throat and swallows nervously. “You’re right. We should find a pregnancy test. I think Nikolai keeps them in his bathroom. He’d have me take one every so often…just to be sure.” She shakes her head as if trying to shake away all of her worries.
I grab her cheeks and hold her face still, giving her the intensity of my stare. “Hey. It changes nothing between us if you’re pregnant. Do you understand me? You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t choose this. Tell me you know that.”
She hesitates. “I know. I do. It’ll probably be negative anyway, right? What are the odds of a pregnancy surviving everything my body’s been through…right?”
I don’t have a fucking clue.
“Right,” I agree, knowing that she’s seeking assurance and that’s all I can give her right now—even if it ends up being false assurance.
Fuck.
“Come on.” I stand and hold out my hands for her, pulling her up when her palms land on mine.
We walk hand-in-hand out of the dance studio, though she pauses once at the door, turning to look back at Nikolai. He’s a still, dead body in the middle of the room where we found each other—a lifeless corpse in the center of the space where my blue-eyed girl and I danced together and fell in love. I’m not sure if that’s hauntingly poetic or morbidly gut-wrenching.
We follow the trail of blood Nikolai left as he bled out all the way from the dance studio back to the grand staircase. We ascend and Anya takes me to Nikolai’s bedroom. She goes straight for his bathroom and I wait beside his bed, listening as she pulls open drawers and flings open cabinets. A minute or two later, she comes out with a small pink box in her hands.
“Found one,” she says with a wry smile. “This one hasn’t expired.” She sucks in a harsh breath. “I don’t want to do this here, though…not in his room.”
I nod. “I know. Come on.”
I take her by the hand and lead her back to her room…my room…our room. It’s a part of Mikhailov Manor, but somehow, this room still feels like our space. She stops at the threshold.