Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(23)

“Later.”

“They’re my family. They’ll be worried about me.”

Viktor says, “We’re your family. I’m your family.”

My heart pounds. “We were married?”

Viktor snorts, seeming almost angry. “We never had any use for papers or contracts. We were not the running dogs of the state bureaucracy. Our love was so strong, it transcended everything.”

“I don’t know you,” I say. “I’m not her.”

“You don’t know that you’re her, that’s all.”

“You know better than I do?”

“Yes!” Viktor closes his eyes and seems to center himself. He raises his hands. “It’s okay.” He speaks as if to calm me, but he’s the one who needs calming. He’s highly emotional, this man. “You’ll go at your pace.”

“I’ll go at no pace. I don’t know you. That won’t change.”

More people come. Russian men who seem to know me, some other Americans, too.

Viktor comes to me, stands beside me. I feel shivers as his mouth nears my ear, his hand barely grazing my straight spine. “I want you to know you’re safe now. You understand? You’re safe with me. I won’t let anything happen to you, and I’ll never, ever hurt you.”

“I want the women freed,” I say. “Will you do that?”

“We’re on it,” Viktor says. “We’ll take that organization down faster and more effectively than the cops ever could, okay?”

“When?”

“As soon as we can take it down in a way where they can’t put it back up.”

“My sisters there cannot wait.”

“I understand.”

I nod. “I’d like to contact my convent…”

Viktor sighs, exasperated. “It’s okay,” he says, unbidden. “Leave us,” he says to the small gathering.

I stiffen. I don’t want to be alone with this one.

An American steps forward and grabs Viktor by the shoulder. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Viktor says. “It’s cool.”

The man cups Viktor’s cheek. His hair is longer than Viktor’s, and curly, but otherwise he looks very much like Viktor. Same dark features, same bold noses, same generous lips. An American brother.

Viktor smiles, but it isn’t his real smile. It feels strange, the way I can read this Viktor.

Viktor’s American brother makes a small hand motion. “Let’s move it out.” The group moves as one toward the door—all except for Nikki. Tito takes her by the arm.

“Leave her,” I say to Tito. “If she doesn’t want to go with you—”

Nikki snorts and shakes him off. “I got this, sister.” She eyes Tito. “Can I have a smoke?”

Tito frowns. “Come on.”

Nikki follows him out.

“You were always so protective,” Viktor says.

I say nothing as they head out, the American brother last. He stops in the doorway and turns. “We’re coming back for dinner,” he says. “We’ll bring stroganoff and pirozhki. Okay?”

“Tanechka doesn’t like potato pirozhki,” Viktor says.

“Not true.” I put my hand to my chest. “I like potatoes…”

“You don’t like potato pirozhki, though, trust me. You always say it’s the scam of the pirozhki world.” He turns to his brother. “No potato pirozhki.”

“Okay, man,” the brother says.

And like that we’re alone. In Russian, he says, “You don’t like it. I’m saving you the trouble.”

“I’m not her.”

“I’m going to light a fire,” Viktor says. “Don’t try to leave. You won’t get far.”

I nod.

“I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You probably marked exactly how many guys were out there when you came in. You always track your environment like that. You knew the camera was there in that room—I could tell. You notice and avoid cameras as easily as a fish swims.”

It feels strange to have him know this. He wads up a handful of paper and shoves it under a log in the fireplace. “We have to get you out of that outfit.”

My pulse races. “This is what I wear,” I say. “I don’t take it off.”

He stills, seeming to bite back hard words. Softly, he says, “You’re not a nun.”

“I’m a novice, hoping to be a nun. I wish you would contact my sisters in the monastery and tell them that I’m all right. It’s near Donetsk.”

He turns. “You got all the way to Donetsk?”

“The countryside, in Donetsk Oblast. Not the city.” I tell him the story, the short version. The hospital. Meeting Mother Olga. Nothing of the icon. I don’t want to hear him denigrate my experience.

“You must have been so frightened.”

“I was,” I say. “I was mostly thirsty, and in so much pain.”

“Tanechka—”

I hold up a hand. “I don’t tell you for pity.” I don’t want his pity or his passion. All of his emotions are too large. “I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”