Page 99 of The King's Pawn
Will he be mad I’m here?
Nikolai gestures forward with a subtle tilt of his chin. “Come along,Devushka. It’s rude to keep people waiting.”
22
SASHA
Dinner, as it turns out, is exactly that.
Which somehow makes this all the worse.
I never predicted I would be sharing a table with Viktor Morozov and his daughter, let alone with Nikolai Malyshko presiding over the head of it like this is some grotesque parody of a family gathering. Polished silverware. Crystal glasses. A linen tablecloth so white, it borders on offensive.
All of us pretending this is a normal Friday evening. All of us pretending there isn’t a metaphorical gun trained at the backs of our heads.
Well. Three of us, anyway. Nikolai, of course, looks perfectly at home.
I force myself not to watch him too closely at first. Instead, my gaze locks onto the seat directly across from mine.
Alina’s.
The sight of her punches the air from my lungs in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Despite the nightmare reel that’s been looping in my head since that phone call with images of her bloodied, broken, lifeless body waiting for me when I arrived, she is very much alive. She’s wearing something simple, elegant without trying, nothing flashy. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, darker under the warm dining light.
She looks good.
Better than good, actually.
My chest tightens when our eyes meet for half a second, loosening almost instantly when she slips me a quiet smile over the rim of her wine glass behind setting it down and focusing on her plate again.
I breathe out slowly.
I hate how fiercely I want to reach across the table and pull her away from this. Fromhim. But what I hate even more is that she’s here because of me.
My attention slides reluctantly to the head of the table.
Nikolai lounges in his chair with one leg hooked over the opposite knee. He’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him. Gone is the expensive clothing tailored to perfection and in its place is a white T-shirt that has been perfectly pressed and a pair of dark-colored slacks. He cuts into the meat on his plate with quick, efficient flicks of his utensils, completely at ease despite the tension hovering over all of us.
Viktor sits stiffly beside me, his posture rigid. He hasn’t looked at any of us once since we arrived. Not even when Nikolaigreeted us with that infuriatingly polite smile before ushering us through his front door.
He lifts his glass with deliberate care, fingers too tight around the stem, and takes a measured sip of wine. The gesture is meant to project composure, the illusion of a man who still believes he belongs in rooms like this.
When he sets the glass down, I see it. The tremor.
It’s subtle, barely there, but it’s enough. His knife quivers when he lifts it, metal trembling faintly as it meets the plate. He presses harder than necessary, sawing through the tender meat like it might fight back.
Fear has finally caught up to him.
Good.
I keep my own hands flat on the table, fingers splayed slightly against the linen. It’s a grounding tactic, one I learned young when violence was a language spoken fluently around me. I don’t trust my hands not to do something stupid if I let them close around the handle of a knife.
Behind me, Roman stands, watchful and rigid. I can feel his tension like static at my back. He’s been wound tightly since before we even crossed the threshold of this estate, every instinct screaming the same sentiment mine is. This is not a negotiation. This is an execution waiting for its order to be chosen.
“Sasha.” Nikolai’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Eat. Please. The chef will be offended otherwise.”
My eyes snap to him.
