Page 81 of Silken Chains
Holy fuck, did his dad really lock his mom in a secret underground chamber?
Nervously, I nibble at my lip, eyeing him. My imagination kicks into overdrive, spinning out all kinds of dark scenarios.
He chuckles. “You’ve got it wrong,” he says, his gaze fixed ahead as we keep moving down. The dim light throws his face into shadow, showing a hint of something sad I hadn’t seen in him till now.
And now he can read minds. Great.
“She’s dead,” he states simply, a flicker of vulnerability in his voice that he quickly smothers.
I feel a twinge of unexpected empathy.
My curiosity about her death, appearance, it all bubbles up, but I push it down.
Not the right time, Laur.
“I’m sorry,” I offer softly, squeezing his hand in mine. “Lost my mom young too.”
We stare at each other for a moment, a glimpse of something on his face—a flicker of shared understanding, maybe—before he masks it with that familiar stoic veneer.
“It happens.” He shrugs, his voice flat as we make our way down the cold stairs. “People die.”
“Achoo!” The sneeze rips through the silence, bouncing off the walls.
Great, just what I need at this time. A bloody sneeze.
Embarrassed, I blush. Great timing, really, showing I’m not all tough.
His mouth quirks up on one side, and he drops his jacket on me. It’s warm. I try to keep my guard up, but it’s hard with his coat around me.
I push away the soft thoughts, trying to remember we’re in a mess, not a date.
“So, are you ever going to tell me where we’re heading?” I shoot him a side glance, trying to muster a bit more boldness in my voice.
Before Victor can respond, he comes to a stop. I quickly turn my attention forward. An archway looms into view, reminiscent of a Moroccan palace, its tiles a riotous explosion of bohemian hues.
I blink rapidly, my mind racing to process the visual feast before my eyes.
“Holy—” I manage to choke out. This isn’t just a chamber; it’s Aladdin’s cave on steroids.
I’m standing here, totally gobsmacked.
Jewelry—more jewelry than I’ve seen in my life—spills from every shelf. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, diamonds gleaming like stars plucked from the sky. Even the watches look like they could fund a small country.
Victor could’ve told me we were crashing the treasure room of some ancient royalty, and I’d nod along. The place is dripping in so much bling it’s like Scrooge McDuck decided to diversify into jewelry.
My idea of wealth is a fully stamped coffee loyalty card. This? This is another universe.
I can’t help but think that my own jewelry collection is pretty much a set of pearls from Mom and… Oh yeah, a gold wedding band from my fake ex-husband.
“Hold on,” he commands, his voice a low growl that prickles my skin.
Frozen in place, I watch Victor stride off, swiftly punching in a sequence that hushes the shrill alarms. “They belonged to my mother,” he murmurs, a rare softness seeping into his tone. “Papa… He…” Victor begins, and right away, there’s a slight shift in him.
He rakes his fingers through his hair and surveys the room with a swift look, his gaze darting from corner to corner as if searching for something unseen. It feels like he’s about to share something he’s not used to discussing.
It pulls me in, even though every logical part of me screams to run from anything tied to the Morozov Bratva.
We lock eyes, and something shifts.
