Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
"How many times have I told you to use the front door like civilized people?" Rafail growls. He blocks the door so I don’t see who it is until he steps aside.
An older man, with the slightest resemblance to Rafail, stands in the doorway. He has salt and pepper in his hair, slicked back from his forehead, revealing tanned, well-worn skin that's cracked like leather, calculating eyes, and a cruel mouth that tells me he is very familiar with what these men do. Next to him stands a blonde woman with bright-red lipstick and false eyelashes that border on wings, wearing a red cardigan cinched at the waist with a gold belt, paired with dark-blue jeans and a pair of heels.
She stares at me, her eyes sweeping over me in a slow, deliberate, uncomfortable once-over, scrutiny the other two women spared me from. The frown that follows is unmistakable when she takes in my rumpled clothing and bare face—disapproval, maybe even something stronger. Like I don’t measure up. I feel smaller under her perusal. Exposed.
I stand taller and meet her gaze. I may not remember who I was, but I know who I am now, and I will not wilt under the scrutiny of anyone.
"Is this the new bride?" she asks, snapping her gum.
Rafail’s jaw clenches. "Yes. This is Anissa. Anissa, meet my Uncle Eduard and his wife, Irma.” He turns to Eduard before I can respond. "Listen, I need a lead on a doctor.”
Eduard nods, helping himself to a cup of coffee. "I've got you one, but you'll have to go there in person. He doesn't do house calls."
"Did you make these?" Their aunt pokes at a container of last night’s cookies.
"Zoya did, but easy, they’re loaded with sugar and fat,” Yana says, her eyes thin slits, hands on her narrow hips.
They don't like this blonde. I'm not surprised.
"That's fine," I say to the uncle just as Rafail shakes his head and says, "No way."
We glare at each other. In the presence of witnesses, maybe I can push my luck.
"I'd like to go, please," I say, more friendly this time.
"No. Not if it involves leaving the house.” He looks at his uncle. “Give me his number. I’ll convince him to come.”
Something tells me he definitely could.
“This particular doctor takes a neutral position on all things related to…” he glances at me, “our world. It’s likely in our best interest to keep it that way.”
Rafail scowls before he turns to Semyon. “Find the doctor on vacation.”
“Tried, brother. He has no reception. Can’t reach him.” Rafail’s eyes darken, and his lips thin. Oh, for the love of—
I throw my hands up in the air. "Rafail, you told me I would get some answers. You promised."
Narrowing his eyes at me, he gives me a silent warning. I know what he said, and I heard him, but dammit, I want answers.
And how bad can disobeying him really be?
"I promised to get answers, but I never said that doing so would actually be an opportunity for you to get injured again.”
“You know,” Semyon says. "Might be a good idea for you to go there." He thoughtfully strokes his chin. "You'd be right in the vicinity of the docks, where the shipment’s set to arrive tonight. Not to mention, where Popov’s men were last seen snooping around. You could kill two birds with one stone.”
Rafail draws a breath through his nose and clenches his teeth as he exhales. He absolutely doesn't like the position he's in.
"You're not well enough to travel," he snaps, but I know this is just a sham. He doesn't want me to leave the gilded cage.
"I'm fine," I say, pushing myself to stand. “Stronger now that I’ve had an excellent breakfast.”
Rodion snorts but quickly shuts up at Rafail’s murderous gaze.
"Fine," Rafail finally says through gritted teeth, obviously outnumbered. "I want to go now. You're going to need to rest later. Give me the number.”
He hasn't even called to see if the doctor would have time for him, but apparently, he doesn’t need to, not with that much power.
I watch as his aunt traipses across the kitchen, high heels clicking. She sniffs at the carton of cream. "Don't you have any low-fat creamer? Skim milk?"
"Eh, drink it black like a real man," Rodion says, his eyes challenging her, and his uncle snorts.
"Let's go," Rafail says as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and helps me to my feet. “Now.”
I reach for my crutches, and he lets me, even though I feel the tension in his hands as he loosens his grip, reluctant to let go. I hobble toward the door, but just as we’re almost there, my ankle wobbles. Shit. His arm wraps around my waist in an instant, steadying me as a low curse slips from his lips, warm against my ear.