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)
Here in Moscow, I'm unfamiliar with the guards—older men, friends of my mother's. She says they worked with my father back in the day. I'm a little surprised by these other people my mother has chosen because they're not as agile and young as the guards back at home. But there's a brutal efficiency I haven't seen before.
One of them only speaks Russian, which pleases my mother. She loves her native tongue, and we rarely speak it at home. He's taller than I am, with a large frame, but when you look closely, there are liver spots on his hands, and his skin looks like well-worn leather. Still, there's a cold calculation in his eyes that tells me he will stop at nothing to do his job. And I suppose that's what my brothers want the most. The other is taller, his gray hair slicked back from a broad forehead. Scars run along his cheek, down his neck, and under the shirt that he wears close to his skin. He's a soldier who's proved himself in battle, though the war he fought was probably decades ago. Both men don't speak to us. Both stand guard. Both are like shadows that never quite go away.
And both of them need to sleep, which works well for me.
I'm not foolish or impulsive, but I do like some space, and I can't be blamed if I want to go for a little walk.
So early on a Friday morning, two days after we arrive in Moscow, I get out of bed and into a pair of running pants and a tank top. It's beautiful here in Moscow in the early morning, especially in the secluded part where we are. Early mornings feel magical, as though the world holds its breath for daybreak.
When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that the fairies danced at dawn, sprinkling fairy dust on dew. Aleksandr, the pragmatic brother of mine, would explain in brutally scientific terms what really happened, but I just told myself that he was ignorant of the ways of the fae. And even now, as an adult, I like to imagine the way my breath becomes vapor, the early morning fog swallows my footsteps, and the way even my thoughts seem to tiptoe from one to the other signifies that there is something magical about early morning.
So I slip out the door and lace up the running shoes I left in the entryway.
Of course, it shouldn't surprise me that I don't get too far.
"Where do you think you're going?" a raspy voice says in Russian behind me. I grit my teeth.
“Out for a run. Care to join me?"
"I don't run, so neither do you."
Oh no, he does not. "I do, so I guess you better get your shit together."
He curses behind me when I start to warm up. And thankfully, he's right. He doesn't run. He sucks at it.
Finally, a little taste of freedom. I can outrun this bastard.
Even if he does catch me, I have defense training that my sister-in-law Isabella taught me, thank you very much.
The first mile always makes me feel like I am suffocating, but I lean into it, sucking wind and waiting for that moment to hit—and then it does. I hit my stride. Adrenaline courses through me. I breathe more freely, sweat knits my brow, and an early morning wind kisses my skin. This. Freedom. There's something about pushing my body, the wind in my hair, the way my skin feels, that makes me feel alive.
My guard calls out after me, but I toss over my shoulder, "If you want to stay close to me, pick up the fucking pace."
I turn the corner, and sunlight nearly blinds me. The sun has begun to rise, orange fingers of light kissing the ground around me. It's beautiful. Pregnant with possibility, but at the same time, as the sunrise paints the sky in vivid orange and yellow, I become aware of the fact that I'm not alone, and it's definitely not my bodyguard who’s following me.
A second pair of footsteps matches mine. No, not matches.
The person behind me is running faster than I am.
My heart kicks up because now I have a dilemma. I have to run slower for my guard to catch up, but whoever's behind me will catch up first.
I've made a mistake. A grave, grave mistake.
Ahead of me lies a patch of green, a tiny park nestled in a secluded area of Moscow, flanked on either side by brick buildings. I could rent one of the buildings, but every residence is closed right now. Running to the park would at least give me a view of whoever’s following me. I take a sharp left, the smell of flowers filling my senses. An older woman with a cane in her right hand holds a dog leash in her left. Her tiny dog looks at us in surprise and yaps. I run right past, glancing behind me.