Murphy swallows and looks down the long expanse of table toward his wife and speaks slowly, almost strained. “Stella. Tell me your thoughts on this…as…a woman.”
Stella’s forehead wrinkles as she sits up taller in her seat, leaning forward on her elbows and clasping her hands, mimicking Murphy in every sense of the word. “You mean you’d like to hear my opinion as the only other child-bearing person in this room? Since that’s all I’m good for?”
Christ, here we go again.
These two fight like fiends all the goddamn time. They’re both temperamental as fuck. Anya thinks they both get off on the constant fighting. I think she’s probably right.
“That horse is dead, wife. Put your damn stick down.”
“Then it’s a fucking zombie horse, Murphy, because it keeps getting up to rear its ugly fucking head.”
“Watch your fucking foul-mouth. I’ll wash it out with soap.”
Stella tilts her head, a scowl spreading across her cheeks. “Promise?”
Murphy slams his fist on the table and both Anya and I jump but Stella doesn’t. I guess she’s had a little more time to get used to his temper. Her chest heaves as she takes in a breath and fire burns behind her eyes. It’s her temper showing, but there’s something else there, too. She feels something for Murphy. I wouldn’t have recognized a look like that a year ago—not before I felt the inexplicable, bone-deep connection I found with Anya.
Then something unexpected happens.
Murphy laughs.
I stare at Anya because it’s really fucking weird.
“Would you just speak your mind, woman?” he tells Stella.
But Stella’s not giving up her fiery rage that easily. Her hands slam against the edge of the table and she pushes back hard, the chair legs squeaking as they scrape against the floor. She stands with ferocity and flips her middle finger with a flippant tilt of her head. “Go fuck yourself, you fucking misogynist pig.” She side-steps and storms toward the door.
Murphy’s on his feet in a flash, but she’s quick, slipping through the exit before he can reach her. Still, he pursues, following her out, and the private dining room door swings shut behind them.
Anya and I look at each other in bewilderment. Then she smiles. “I love that girl.”
My grin spreads wide. Anya’s smile is like light from a star, burning hot and bright, always heating me and giving me life, even when I can’t see it behind the torrential clouds of despair.
She stands and shuffles quickly to the door, standing beside it, leaning toward the frame as if she’s straining to hear. She stands still, listening, and I watch her facial expressions shift as she does. She looks back at me, mouthing words I can’t make out, but she looks so entertained that it keeps me amused.
I shake my head at her with a grin and she mouths something else, then jumps and rushes back to her seat beside me. She plants her ass in the chair at the exact moment Murphy comes back in through the door. He marches across the room and huffs as he takes his seat. Stella doesn’t come back.
Murphy doesn’t return to eating, but he looks at Anya pointedly. “I can’t let the two of you and Kostya go back to Mikhailov Manor unchaperoned.”
Anya perks up. “But you will let us go back? So, I can have my baby there?”
Murphy sighs, but he seems less agitated than before. “You’re a lucky girl that I’m trying to win over my wife, who just so happens to think rather highly of you.” He slaps his palm down on the table. “She does not make decisions on our behalf, let me be fucking clear about that.” Anya nods and Murphy continues, “But she made a compelling argument in your favor. We’ll leave in two weeks.”
“We?”
“Stella and I will join you. Frankly, we could use a break from…family pressures. We’ll consider it an extended vacation.”
“In the middle of the forest?” Anya asks. “In Russia? In January? I’m not sure I’d call that a vacation.”
Murphy’s jaw ticks, but he maintains his composure. “I’m not explaining myself to you. And you should really think twice about passing judgment when I’m giving you exactly what you want.”
Anya casts a furtive glance at me and I see humor in her eyes. “My apologies.”
“As I was saying, you can have your baby at home, as you requested. If we leave in two weeks, that will allow you time to get settled in before the birth and give you additional time to prepare to host the quarterly meeting.” Anya’s due date is only a week before she’s supposed to host, with me as her talent. “I think what I’m offering you is more than fair. It’s more than I ever would’ve offered you if Stella didn’t give a fuck. Understood?”
Anya glances at me, but I don’t even look at her for fear I’ll give something away. If our escape goes as planned, we’ll be gone after I dance on the night of the quarterly meeting. We won’t have to worry about what comes after that. We just need to get to Mikhailov Manor to ensure everything is in place. It’s the only place Kostya can help us escape from.
“That’s fair, Murphy,” Anya tells him. “Thank you for your generosity.”
Murphy O’Shea has been fair.
Fair and nearly reasonable in our time here with his family. It would be too easy for Anya and me to settle into our stay here, to become complacent in this new environment where violence has been minimal, and we’ve been granted the privilege of staying together as master and slave.
I’m a slave to that woman regardless of our place because she owns my heart and soul.
If it weren’t for his wife, though, I think things would be different. I’ve seen how his parents treat the talent slave and obviously, Murphy is the product of their upbringing. But Murphy picked a firecracker of a bride, a woman who he’s thankfully head over heels for because he bends to her wishes like a doting husband—even if he fights her every step of the way. Stella is smart, stubborn, and gives a shit about how other people are treated—a fucking lucky combination for us.
Miraculously lucky.
But for us to become content in this nearly safe environment would be stupid. Our fates are yet to be determined, and though the baby has bought us time, there will be another decision coming about Anya and what should be done with her.
We have to escape.
There is no complacent life here.
And our last opportunity is coming.
I’m not exactly thankful to be back at Mikhailov Manor, but I am thankful for this time in the dance studio. Not that I have any fondness for this space on its own. It’s just that this studio is the place I first met Anya, the place where I first discovered a passionate hatred for her in her icy coldness, the place where I ultimately fell in love with the truth of her heart and the goodness of her soul.