Page 30 of Pas de Trois
I want to attack.
I force myself to dampen my natural urges because I know what has to happen here.
I’m not in control.
I don’t have the power.
But Anya might just be able to take it for herself—for the both of us—if I just shut up and do as I’m told for once.
So, I keep my shit under control, and I do it for her.
I settle there on my knees, sitting back on my heels. I throw my hands up momentarily in surrender before I let them flop down onto my thighs when Renata appears satisfied with my concession. She rounds on Anya next, and it takes everything within me to remain where I am.
“You vile little slut!” Renata shouts at her, her words clipped and precise. “You killed my brother!”
I see a venomous smile touch Anya’s cheek. “He deserved it.”
Renata forces her way around Murphy, slapping Anya with a thwack that echoes through the clearing. She wraps her fist around Anya’s hair, tugging her head sideways. Anya yelps and my muscles twitch.
“Stop it,” Murphy says coolly. “She may have killed your brother, but she’s a fucking wife. You can’t behave this way, Renata.”
Renata grits her teeth, hesitating with her grip on Anya, but after moments, she finally lets go. “Fine,” she says, stepping back. “I’ll be civilized.”
Murphy laughs. “Right, you will.”
Cordelia quickly finds her way to Renata’s side, her face red and eyes glossy with tears. She links her arm with Renata’s and pets her hair as if she’s some broken creature who requires comfort. It’s almost comical to watch these heathens pretend to be human, as if they have actual emotions and give a shit about human life.
When all the passengers have gathered and the whir of the helicopter’s engine shuts off entirely, silence washes over the dark clearing. The wind whispers through the trees surrounding the circular space, encircling the stand-off between Anya and the board of the four families.
She stands alone, proud—as cold and hard as she needs to be—and utterly fucking strong. The sheer power of her will is a supernatural force that could bring them all to their knees…and I have no doubt that in time, she will.
“Is this everyone?” Anya asks without a hint of wavering in her tone, though I sense her anxiety rushing beneath the surface. “If you’re all ready, I’m happy to take you to the manor and welcome you to my home.”
Cordelia shouts, “That is Nikolai’s home, not yours! You’re a talent slave, no better.”
Anya raises her chin. “I am better than a talent slave. I’m a Mikhailov. I’m Nikolai’s bereaved bride. Surely, you would grant me some kindness in my time of grief.”
It’s a total fuck-up on my part, but I just can’t hold back my chuckle. Thankfully, they’re all so high-strung that they don’t seem to notice or care.
“Give me the keys and get in the backseat, lass. I’ll drive that car,” Murphy gestures to the car Anya drove here.
“Fine,” she replies, holding out the keys for him.
She doesn’t wait for anyone. She confidently strides away, turning her back on all of us, gliding away like a queen to her carriage.
I’m so fucking proud of her.
Head over fucking heels in love.
“Lorenzo, drive the other car,” Murphy says to a man that must be a Vittori—he looks like a younger version of Vigo.
Lorenzo forces me into the backseat of the second car—separating me from my girl—and I’m forced to make the entire thirty-minute drive back to the manor with anxiety pricking pins and needles into my bones. I know she can handle her own, but I hate being apart from her.
I fear our separation, and not just for this relatively short car trip—it’s deeper than that. I fear what will happen to her if they sell or kill me. I don’t want to leave her behind to live this life alone.
We arrive at the manor and Anya is the first one out of the cars. She marches ahead to the main entryway, holding her long, layered skirt up with her hands near her hips. She moves with intent and grace. The rest of us get out and follow behind as she walks into Mikhailov Manor. She’s leading this mission rather than falling in line and waiting for a command.
I love this side of her—this strong, take-no-shit, take-no-prisoners side of her. It’s a part of her personality that’s been repressed for far too long in captivity and it’s shining now. She’s playing a part, but she owns it, because it really is her.
