Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“Ruby.” Mom sighs. “You should have come to us.”
“With all due respect, as much as I love you, I have to start dealing with stuff on my own. I won’t pretend that I dealt with this well, and I am sorry for that, but for the first time in my life, I feel like me instead of a polished doll that only does the right thing all the time.”
Da crosses his arms over his chest. “We never expected perfection from you.”
“I know.” My words get choked, but I press through. “I’m not trying to escape responsibility. I didn’t want to disappoint you, so I carved off big parts of myself to fit the role that I thought you wanted, even while I dodged that role. But I’ve been . . . phoning it in when it comes to most of the stuff in my life. It’s time for that to change.”
“We don’t have to tell you that a Romanov is dangerous. They’re like cockroaches—there’s never just one,” Dad says. “And the Mad Wolf? He’s the most dangerous of all.”
“Not to me.”
“Don’t be naive.”
“I’m not.” Not anymore. I’m not ready to tell them the task I sent him on. If he’s successful, it will go a long way towards proving his loyalty—both to me and my parents. “Casimir would murder the world for me. He’s not a saint, but would you really want me to be with a saint?”
My parents exchange a look so filled with history that it’s got too many layers for me to translate. Finally Mom sets down her mug. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” She rounds the kitchen island and presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m glad you’re home safe.” She walks through an archway, heading deeper into the house.
Da grabs the mugs and makes quick work of them in the sink while Dad watches me closely as if weighing his words. Finally he says, “If you sneak out again, I’m cutting down every tree around the house. You want to be treated like an adult? Start acting like one.”
17
The next morning, I wake to a text from Casimir.
Casimir
I’m about to get on the plane, but I’ll be back in a week. Be good.
I stare at my phone for several long minutes, trying to process the complicated emotions that rise in response to the knowledge that he’s leaving town. Because I asked him to. A small, terrified part of me is afraid he’ll be gone forever. That he’s had his fun, his cover is blown, and now it’s time to reconvene and figure out a new plan.
But I don’t believe that, do I?
Casimir claimed me at the auction. Publicly. I can’t believe that was all part of some plan that ends with him dumping me and making me look and feel like a fool. But as the days tick by with only the barest communication, adding up to a week and then more, my resolve starts to falter. Maybe he isn’t coming back at all. Maybe he’s just stringing me along to keep me complacent. Maybe that awful little voice inside me is right for once.
Or, even worse, maybe Jovan has killed him and someone is using his phone to text me.
No. No. I cannot believe that. He’s fine. It’s just as he’s said—it’s taking longer to convince his uncle to see things our way than initially planned.
I’m going through the motions, caught in stasis as I wait for something to give. My parents’ anger hasn’t thawed, and my aunt isn’t happy with me either. I spend every day closed away in my office, keeping my head down and diligently doing my work.
On the twelfth day after the text from Casimir, Dad knocks on my office door. Usually when I’m in trouble, it’s Da who ultimately smooths things over and lets me know the worst of my parents’ anger has passed. Dad isn’t much of a talker. That means I can go to Dad when the world becomes too much and I just need a safe place to land. His silences are comforting in a way I appreciate more and more as I get older.
But there’s little that can comfort me in my current mindset.
He looks at me for a bit, his pale eyes no doubt clocking all the signs that I haven’t slept well since coming home. Even with makeup, there’s no missing the shadows beneath my eyes, and I’ve been so stressed, I’ve reverted to my childhood habit of picking my nail polish.
“Let’s go.”
“Taking me to the firing squad?”
He doesn’t bother to respond to my snotty question, which is just as well. He motions for me to follow him out the door, and I know better than to do anything else. What Dad doesn’t solve with words, he does with actions, and he’s not above hauling me over his shoulder and tossing me into the nearest body of water if I get too pissy for no reason. I rise with a sigh and follow him out of the room. It only takes me a few turns to figure out our destination. The sparring mat.