Page 15 of Vendetta Crown

"Of course it's not fair," she says. "But such is our lot in life as women in a world shaped by violent men."

Then, as softly as she came in, Vera walks out the room, closing the door behind her to give me privacy.

I slowly stand up from the bed, my body aching in ways I didn't think were possible.

Each movement sends sharp reminders of yesterday's struggle, of Kristofer's hands and teeth, and of how terrifyingly close my worst nightmares almost came true.

The closet Vera opened is filled with clothes for all sorts of occasions, ranging from casual to formal. All of them expensive brands without labels.

I select a high-necked sweater in a soft cream color that will hide the bite marks on my shoulder, and a pair of long dark slacks to hide the welts on my thighs.

As I dress, I catch glimpses of myself in the full-length mirror. The bruise on my cheek is turning a sickening shade of purple-yellow. My eyes look sunken and haunted.

"Ruslan isn't dead," I whisper to my reflection. "He can't be."

The attendant waiting for me outside has the same hardened look as most of the men I've seen in the bratva world: an impassive face with calculating eyes.

In silence, he leads me down a long hallway lined with artwork that must've cost thousands if not millions.

I look for Vera as we walk, hoping to see her gentle face among the stern-looking men we pass.

There's something about her that reminds me of myself—that I'm a woman caught in a life she never chose, playing the cards she was dealt.

But she's nowhere to be found.

We stop at an imposing door of dark wood, intricately carved with what looks like hunting scenes. The attendant raps sharply before opening it.

"Aurora Markovna Dragunov," he announces, stepping aside to let me enter.

The office is massive. All wood paneling and leather furniture, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. Vyacheslav sits behind a desk that could double as a small boat, his severe expression unchanged from yesterday.

And standing beside him, with her shoulders curved inward like a wilting flower, is Vera. Her eyes meet mine briefly, then flutter back to the floor.

The perfect, obedient bratva wife.

A fate that might have been mine if Ruslan had been a different kind of man.

"Sit, please." Potyomkin gestures at a leather chair across from his desk.

I lower myself gingerly, wincing as my bruised body protests the movement.

"I thought I would give you the courtesy of a good night's rest," he says. "Especially given everything that happened yesterday."

"Hmph."

It's all I can manage. The gratitude I should feel is smothered by the knowledge that objectively, he's not so different from Kristofer.

Potyomkin's mouth curves into what you might call a smile. But there's nothing warm about it.

"You are an outsider who has no idea how our world works," he says flatly. "Because your husband is dead, you have no right to expect anything from us." He spreads his hands on the polished desk. "In other words, I had no obligation to save you last night."

Potyomkin turns to look at Vera, who stands silently beside him, her posture perfect in her subservience.

"It was my wife who persuaded me otherwise."

I look at Vera with new eyes, keeping my surprise carefully hidden.

So this delicate girl who seems to fold in on herself whenever her husband is near, somehow persuaded one of the most terrifying man I've ever met to rescue me?

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