Satin Princess(9)

“I should have nipped that goddamn rumor in the bud a long time ago,” I growl to no one in particular. “I shouldn’t have left it to run its course.”

Yulian slumps into a seat and kicks his feet up. “Some rumors run their course. Others just pick up steam. Especially when there’s a little truth to them. Streisand Effect. Like Barbara. The singer, you know?”

I turn to my brother as my irritation melts into anger. The kind of anger that requires an outlet. My fists clench.

Yulian notices. “Hey, c’mon now, you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

He sighs. “Listen, brother, I’m on your side. If you say you didn’t kill her, then I believe you.”

“Do you?” I ask.

My voice is low but sharp. Even Yulian can’t miss the implication of violence.

“How can you even ask me that?”

“Because from the moment you found Marina’s body, you’ve looked at me differently.”

“Differently how?”

“Like you’ve been trying to figure out if I killed her or not. Like you don’t believe the words that come out of my mouth.”

Yulian stares at me for a second, still waiting for a punchline that will never come. Then he sighs. “Anton, when I found her… well, it wasn’t a suicide. Someone killed her. I know what I saw.”

“She pissed off a lot of people.”

“I know that. She had enemies. But it’s just, like, the timing of everything, you feel me?”

“Listen to me, little brother,” I say, fighting through my anger in order to get the words across. “If I had killed Marina, I would have taken credit for it.”

I meet his eyes and watch as something sad flashes across them. “I believe you,” he murmurs.

“Good. Then let’s put this irritating topic to rest.”

“Agreed,” he says, with a catch in his voice I can’t quite explain. “Listen, we also need to talk about Yaromir and the Ivanovs. They’re—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the Ivanovs right now.”

“But they’re ripe for the plucking,” he protests.

“Not my top priority.”

The shock on Yulian’s face fades after a moment. “Wow, you really do care about her, don’t you?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” I snap.

He smiles. “You first.”





4





JESSA





“This is where you grew up?”

After fourteen hours of travel, a time change, two airplanes, and a car ride, it's possible I'm hallucinating the stately mansion in front of me.

But if I'm hallucinating, then so is Freya. She's looking up at the house with a fond smile.

When she turns to me, the smile remains, though it starts to look a little sheepish. “Actually, this was just the country home where we spent our summers.”

I whistle under my breath. “Wowza.”

Her embarrassed smile only gets more pronounced. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you kidding? It’s a huge deal. You neglected to mention you’re a rich kid.”

She waves me away with her hand. “No, my parents are rich. I’m broke as can be.”

“Potato, poh-tah-to, tomato, tom-ah-to.”

The suited driver carries our bags up the polished stone steps that lead to the entrance of Freya’s country house. The facade is made of red brick and what looks like a buttery yellow sandstone. They might clash, were it not for the delicate ivy creeping up the walls and tying everything together like fine emerald thread.

I take it all in, shaking my head in awe. “It’s so nice,” I mumble. “Actually, ‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

The doors open before we can reach them. The man standing at the threshold is an older gentleman wearing what can only be described as a butler’s uniform.

“This is Clark,” Freya says, gesturing me inside. “He’s been with my family for almost two decades now.”

“Ms. Freya,” he says with a half-smile. If he smiled fully, I think his face might crack. His eyes flit to me with disinterest. “Welcome to Laurel Manor, madam.”

“That’s a pretty name,” I say, hoping the austere British butler will warm to me in time. “Do you know its history?”

He hesitates slightly, his eyes moving to Freya and then back to me. “I believe the family that built the manor were called the Laurels.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

His expression suggests otherwise.

Freya links her arm with mine and pulls me into the manor. It really is beautiful. Despite the elements of contemporary living that make up the interior—shimmering glass framed in sleek black metal, floating steel stairs, a few harsh, abstract paintings—there are also little nods to a bygone era. Like the diagonal timbers that make up the walls and the large casement windows that overlook the backyard.

“I’ll ensure your bags are put in your respective rooms,” Clark says, even though he makes no attempt to pick up our luggage.