Satin Princess(58)

Jessa walks towards me, blushing under my gaze. I hold out a hand to help her into the tub, and she sinks into it, her eyes rolling back with pleasure.

“This feels amazing.” She cracks open one eye and looks over. “Want to join me?”

I’m not expecting that. But it’s an invitation I can’t refuse. I strip down, not bothering with modesty because there’s no way I can hide this raging erection. I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my whole damn life.

Her eyes go straight to it, though I can’t exactly fault her for looking after the way I eye-fucked her only moments ago.

Then I submerge my body below the sudsy surface and the crackling tension dissipates, at least for now.

“What are you going to do when you find her?” Jessa asks reluctantly as the quiet plink of water droplets falling from her hair echoes around the room.

“Do you really care?”

She weighs that. “I do… kinda.”

“Then you shouldn’t. She’s not worth it.”

“You can put her in jail," she suggests.

“But I won’t.”

“Anton—"

“This is the Bratva, Jessa,” I remind her. “We handle our disputes differently.”

“She’s still a person. Someone who’s suffered.”

She doesn’t put the blame on me, but it’s still there between us. The fighting, the violence, the anger, the miscarriage. One is a mirror image of the other. She sees herself in Marina—and in me, she sees the possibility of violence that cannot be taken back once it’s dealt.

“She brought on her own suffering,” I growl.

“I don’t want her to die.”

"You don’t want Freya to die,” I point out. “You don’t even know Marina.”

She sighs. “Maybe I just—”

“Freya doesn’t exist, Jessa. Marina needs to be stopped.”

“What can she really do?”

“She has support, that much is clear. When you were at Laurel Manor, was there staff on the grounds?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know… a butler, a cook, a gardener, a few maids?”

“People who are loyal to her,” I say. “I may have hated the woman, but I never underestimated her. She can be persuasive, even charming when she wants to be.”

“She fooled me.”

I nod. “Exactly. “She’s talented at manipulation. And that makes her dangerous.”

“Her father is Bratva?” Jessa asks.

“He was. It's under the control of her cousin now,” I say. “He has the lion’s share of Rodion’s men, the ones who stuck around, which means she’ll have to go to him at some point.”

“But you’re planning on beating her to the punch, aren’t you?”

I smile. “You have a knack for this.”

She looks flattered, but then her expression turns pained. "I don’t want you to get hurt, Anton.”

“What makes you think I will?”

“She’s dangerous.”

I give her a cocky smile that I hope will reassure her. “And who do you think she learned it from?”





20





JESSA





Two days since the farmer’s market. But it feels more like a week. A month. A century. My life has turned stagnant. I move around the suite, a ghost searching for a purpose.

Anton is gone for hours at a time. I know he’s planning something with Lev and Yulian. I know it has to do with Rodion’s nephew, Marina’s cousin. I don’t know any details, and frankly, I don’t really want to.

I just want all this to be over so that I can enjoy my pregnancy and sleep without nightmares.

The medical staff disappeared right after clearing me. Now, a butler comes up twice a day to check if I need anything, and a maid comes in the mornings to clean. Four armed guards stand outside the suite at all hours. I can’t tell them apart to save my life, so either Anton has an army of clones or this lifestyle just shapes men to look a certain way. Hard in the eyes, scarred, tattooed, with a merciless clench to the jaw.

It’s supposed to keep me safe. But it just makes me feel isolated. The only times my loneliness ever recedes is when Anton walks through the door.

I try cooking, but for the first time in my life, it fails to ease my mind. Maybe that’s why, in the thick of desperation, I decide to call my mother.

She answers but doesn't say anything right away. I swallow and break the silence. "Mom?"

“Jessa?” She actually says my name like a legitimate question. Like it could be someone else calling. Because there are so many people out there who refer to her as “Mom.”

“Hi, Mom. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, I suppose it has.” Her voice is clipped.

“How are you?”

“Fine, dear.”

“And Dad?”

“He’s fine, too.”

It seems we’ve already reached the end of the conversation, but I’m so desperate that I refuse to take the hint.

“You want to ask me how I am?” I ask.