Page 93 of Pageant

I’ve been trying to fathom what he meant by that. He had no patience for the contestants who cried and fell apart, or the ones who had no self-control and screamed or froze up. What drives a man to do what Konstantin did to us? He hunted us down like prey, but with mind tricks and games instead of guns through a forest.

If I’d taken his hand and walked into his arms that night, would I be his queen now, or his slave? Memories of the achingly sweet way he kissed the tears from my cheeks haunt my nights. The pain he put me through. The dizzying rush of release. My torturer, and my savior. One hand punishing while the other worships.

You are perfect, Lilia Aranova. You are my angel. My precious.

I blink and give myself a shake. Konstantin’s twisted love is even worse than Elyah’s violent adoration and Kirill’s perversion. Konstantin didn’t lift me up. He forced me to submit to him, and once he’d proved his dominance, he shoved me to the ground like a broken doll. I had to make him believe he’d broken me. I had to throw myself from the judging table with the noose around my neck. I needed to let them win. Everything I did in that room was a means to an end, but those men stole a piece of my soul just the same.

And Kirill? I remember his shocked face when I shouted at him to pull the trigger, and I can’t help but smile. How delicious it was to ruffle his hair and squeeze his muscular shoulders with my thighs. Whenever I see a shadow moving out of the corner of my eyes, I wonder if it’s Kirill that’s come to wind a garrote around my throat again and whisper vicious words of hate in my ear as he slowly strangles me. A swift, hot pang goes through me at the thought of him thrusting deep inside me just as I fall into unconsciousness.

“You’re fucking crazy, Lilia,” I whisper to myself. I need to get a grip before I do something insane like stick my hand down my pants and get myself off to the thought of all of them screwing me. Or become so distracted and careless that I allow them to find me.

Whatever my fantasies might tell me, my head knows that Konstantin, Elyah, and Kirill are hunting me right this moment. Not only did I destroy the pageant and shatter their egos, but I stole fourteen million dollars’ worth of pink diamonds from them. If they catch me, they will rip my spine from my living body and beat me to death with it.

I know this, and yet I can’t rid myself of one lingering thought. That I never felt more alive than when I was handing those dangerous men their goddamn asses.

I lock that in my heart and throw away the key. It’s my little secret, and I’ll take it to the grave.

I check the time on my phone and make my usual call at this time.

An accented voice speaks on the other end. “Hello?”

“It’s me.Ya tebya lyublyu.”I love you.

I never say my name. I never wait for her to reply.Babulyaknows something happened, that I’m alive and in Trieste. I can’t risk telling her anything about what I plan to do next or where I might go. Between my father and Konstantin, it’s not safe for me to confide in anyone or ask for help. I’m completely on my own.

Before I can hang up,Babulyacries, “Come home,kroshka. You will be safe here.”

Home. The word echoes with longing through my mind. After so many long and lonely months, I’d give anything to sit atBabulya’skitchen table and eat blinis with her.

“You’re the one who told me to leave,” I remind her. I say it gently, not wanting to accuse her of anything. In the days after Ivan was killed, the rumors spread through the Russian community that I had betrayed him to the feds. She came to see me at Dad’s, and she was terrified for my safety.

“I thought you would be better off out in the world, away from your father and the men who wanted you dead. But something terrible happened, didn’t it? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

There’s so much that I’m not telling her. If I lead Konstantin toBabulya, I’ll never forgive myself. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I hang up and press my fingers against my eyes beneath my sunglasses.Babulyadoesn’t know anything that’s happened. She thinks I’m merely hiding from Dad, not three more mafia assholes who are capable of cruelty ten times worse than anything my father could dream up. With a lump in my throat, I stand from the café table and reach for my bag.

A wave of nausea and dizziness slams into me, and I stagger into a chair at the next table, grabbing hold of it before I can fall over.

“Scusa,” I say to the woman sitting at the table who’s looked up from her coffee.

She’s an older woman, a local, and she rakes me with shrewd eyes. “Quante settimane?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

“You are pregnant?”

I look down to where my palm is flattened against my belly and take it away with a laugh. “Oh, no, I’m not…”

The words die on my lips along with my smile, and I feel my face drain of color.

Pregnant.

When was my last period? I’ve bought myself a toothbrush, toothpaste, sun cream, even some nail clippers, but nothing has sent me to the supermarket for tampons in the past five weeks.

The woman beams at me and nods, as if she’s discovered something wonderful. “Congratulazioni.”

“I’m not pregnant,” I mutter, grabbing my bag and walking quickly away. My feet thud on the sidewalk as my blood roars in my ears. I’mnot. I refuse. It’s absolutely impossible.

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