Page 27 of Sold to the Russian
A pause, and then she added, “We don’t see you as much these days. It’s only a matter of time before they get suspicious.”
A muscle feathered in Fedya’s jaw. He knew something like this was coming anyway. He’d been spending less time with his family ever since he began making his own moves with the Irish. He’d been attending fewer events than usual, too focused on his mission to worry about anything else. His cousins and brothers weren’t dumb—they’d figure out something was going on with him eventually. Especially now that he was going to be spending all of his time away from the city with Maeve until he figured out an excellent plan to lay it all bare to his family.
“Mikhail’s birthday is drawing closer,” Irina said, tearing him out of his thoughts. “A party will be thrown. You should be there, and if you’ve settled this issue with her, you could bring her along as well.”
Fedya nodded. Revealing Maeve to his family was inevitable. He just didn’t think it would be this soon.
“I’ll think about it,” he told his sister.
They exchanged their goodbyes, with Fedya making sure she left first and safely, before taking another lane and journeying back to the outskirts of the city.
By the time Fedya walked into the house later, dusk was just beginning to bleed through the windows. Almost an entire day without her. His skin thrummed as he traversed the all-too-quiet place. She wasn’t anywhere around, which meant she stillhad herself trapped in that room. The bacon, eggs, and coffee he left for her before leaving still sat untouched in the kitchen, and Fedya rolled his eyes as he tossed the disgustingly cold coffee into the sink.
Of course, she’d joke with her own stomach just because she didn’t want to talk to him. But just because she wouldn’t mean he would as well. He’d force food down her throat if he had to.
“Maeve,” he called out, his knuckles rapping against the door to the room. “Come on out now. I’ve grown a little bored with your silly hide-and-seek game.”
There was no answer. No ‘fuck off’ or ‘leave me alone’. There was nothing but silence, even when he placed his ear against the door to pick up any sound of activity.
He tried again, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Maeve?” He knocked again, pressure sinking into his knuckles from how hard he pushed against the door. “Open up, Maeve.”
A sound came, but it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t from the voice he was beginning to hate to love. It was sharp, hard, a heavy and unmistakable shatter of glass against the floor. Less than a beat later, there was another sound: a muffled groan that came from her, a pained moan that escaped her lips.
His blood froze, and alarm ticked behind his skull like a time bomb. He didn’t need to think, didn’t have the time to, before stepping back and ramming his shoulder into the door. The stupid thing didn’t give, and he kicked once, twice, before slipping his gun out from the back pocket of his jeans. Of course, the door wouldn’t budge easily; it was a safe house made to stand secure, no matter what.
Too bad Fedya was going to shoot it down.
“Get away from the door, Maeve,” he said coldly, hard enough for her to detect the seriousness in his tone. Without blinking, he shot at the door four times, each shot banging against the door in succession. On the fourth shot, the lock splintered, and Fedya slammed his foot forward, sending the door flying inward.
She was stumbling back on her knees, one hand braced against the floor, the other cradling a palm streaked with blood. Thick, dark red liquid oozing down her fingers in rivulets. White shards of a ceramic vase glittered around her like ice. Her hair flowed down the expanse of her back, sweaty strands stuck to her temples as she winced in pain, her brows flying up when she looked up at him.
Fedya’s body stilled only for half a second as he took in the scene in front of him—blood, her trembling body, her gasped breath, her moan of pain. His mind leapt to the worst conclusion, and his jaw clenched, anger and disgust for himself seeping through his muscles, forcing its way into his brain.
His conversation with Irina came back, louder than ever.
I don’t want her hurting herself because of me.
You think she might?
And here she was, cradling a bloody hand on the bloody floor with a bloody broken vase around her.
Fedya’s voice was tight, quiet, forced from somewhere at the back of his throat. “What the hell did you do?”
Maeve blinked up at him, her hands still shaking on the floor. “What—”
But Fedya didn’t wait for her to finish. He was moving already, which was a surprise considering the amount of irritation coursing through him, winding his muscles tight. Hecrossed the room in three long strides, grabbed her under the arms, and pulled her up like she weighed nothing.
Even in her current state, she was glaring at him, her jaw tight. “Let go of me.”
Fedya ignored her protests as he dragged her to the bathroom. “Sit.” She wouldn’t listen to him, so he shoved her gently but firmly onto the closed toilet seat.
Blood was dropping from her palm now, trailing down her wrist, splattering against the white tiles like red globs of watercolor. Fedya turned the tap on and grabbed a clean towel, then knelt in front of her, not caring that her blood smeared against his clothes. His jaw was rigid as he washed the blood off her skin, and she hissed when the water hit her skin.
He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t bring himself to see the revulsion in her eyes. Her withdrawal from his touch was more than enough.
His hands worked fast, grabbing antiseptic and dabbing the open scar on her wrist. Maeve cursed out loud, snatching her wrist from him, but he grabbed it right back, his hold on her tight.
Her teeth were clenched hard, and her eyes were hot with hate. “I told you to let go of me.”
