Page 131 of The Wrong Brother

“Move,” he commands, gesturing with the muzzle. Victoria sidesteps away from me quickly, and I can catch my breath again. I practically stumble further into the room. The blonde shuts the door, locks it. Looks back and forth between the two of us.

The muzzle never wavers from Victoria’s chest.

“That’s not necessary,” Victoria whispers.

Something fuzzy in my brain registers that she’s probably right, but my teeth are clenched with tension. For several endless seconds, no one moves.

Then Frank studies her face. His gaze flicks toward the darkness outside before returning to her.

“Are you alone?”

Victoria nods. “Yes.”

“You weren’t followed?”

“I don’t think so. No headlights, and I can’t imagine anyone could get here without them.”

“You don’t think,” Frank repeats calmly, “or you know?”

She visibly struggles to answer.

“I...I know.”

Frank considers her. Then, just as smoothly as he’d drawn the weapon, he lowers it.

“Where the hell did you get a gun?” I blurt out, but he ignores the question, and the pistol disappears beneath his jacket before I fully process that it was ever there.

Victoria lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s not important.” He notices us both staring as he straightens his pajamas. “What?”

“You should have told me you had that!”

“You should haveassumedI had it, darling. Do you think Ruslan would leave us here without a weapon?”

He says it as though discussing umbrellas during a rainstorm. Victoria still looks pale.

“I thought you were going to shoot me,” she stutters.

“I was considering the possibility.” Frank sighs. “You forced your way into a cabin occupied by a pregnant woman in the middle of the night. What was I supposed to think?”

When he puts it that way...

“I promised him I’d protect you,” he adds, looking directly at me.

Of course.

“Now,” he says, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve, “I think all three of us could benefit from tea.”

Victoria stares at him. “You...you’re making tea?”

“I make excellent tea.” Without another word, he disappears into the kitchen.

The normalcy of it is so absurd that I almost laugh. Instead, I look at Victoria. She’s the absolutelastperson I expected to see here, and she still hasn’t moved from the doorway.

Her breathing is uneven, and even in the dim light I can see the strain etched across her face. She’s wearing rumpled clothes beneath the expensive wool coat, her mascara smudged beneath red-rimmed eyes. Which means she didn’t even try to go to sleep tonight.

Running. I’d recognize it anywhere—she’s running.