Page 76 of Shadows of the Past
I can't help but chuckle, the tension easing slightly. "Someone's got to keep them on their toes, right?"
He emerges from the study doorway, shaking his head with a sigh, a gesture so achingly reminiscent of Max that a sharp pang hits my chest, stealing my breath.Diosito, I miss him.The physical distance feels like a raw wound.
Next time, he's not going alone. The thought is fierce, absolute. But Akim had needed potential tech backup for this meeting, coordinating the complex transfer of resources Vlad promised, and I had to stay. It’s ridiculous, really—Akim can map the human circulatory system with lethal precision, knows exactly where to slide a blade to draw precisely ten milliliters of blood, yet hand him a complex keyboard or encryption sequence, and he's utterly lost.
Akim wraps up his discussion with Vlad by finalizing details, transferring funds through layers of shell corporations that hopefully won't trace back to us anytime soon. Then, we head out, the purpose of our visit accomplished.
?
Dusk is painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange by the time we get back to the house. No sooner are we inside than Ivan's lieutenant appears, curt and efficient, summoning Akim immediately to the port due to some critical shipment holdup, no explanation given. Trouble, always brewing.
Before Akim leaves, pulled back into the grim machinations of Ivan's world, he turns back to me, his expression tight with frustration.
"Can you check on Zoya for me?" he asks, his voice low. “I promised her we’d watch a movie tonight, but with this mess at the docks…I won’t make it back in time. I know she was looking forward to it."
"Sure," I agree easily, though Zoya's odd behavior earlier still prickles at the back of my mind.
But first, a shower to wash away the grime of the day and the lingering tension. And I need to call Maksim.
I pull out my encrypted phone, needing to hear his voice, hating the miles stretching between us. There's this odd, unsettling pressure building in my chest, a nameless anxiety I can't shake, tightening its coils.
He answers on the first ring, his voice rough, immediate, instantly grounding.
"Julia? You okay?"
A smile instinctively touches my lips. Of course, his first thought is that something’s wrong, that I’m hurt. It’s always his first thought.
"Miss you," I whisper into the phone, curling into myself, pulling my knees to my chest in the vast emptiness of the bed. The silence of the room suddenly feels too much.
I used his shower gel, wanting to cloak myself in the sharp, clean scent of rosemary, wanting to feel him closer somehow. But it’s not quite right. It lacks the underlying musk, the uniquelyhimscent that clings to his skin. It’s a pale imitation, and the frustration prickles.
For a tense second, I think maybe he didn’t hear me, my vulnerability hanging raw in the air. Then his voice comes through the line, low and definite, sending a jolt straight through me.
"I’m almost home, baby. Thirty minutes."
I don’t answer right away, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, doubling its rhythm at the prospect of seeing him so soon, feeling the solid warmth of him beside me again.
"Okay," is all I manage, the word barely a breath.
I hang up the phone after telling him how the meeting went, and then I remember Akim’s request regarding Zoya.
Pulling on a pair of worn boots over my leggings, I head out toward their smaller cottage, nestled about 150 yards from the main house. Even on this short walk across familiar ground, my senses remain hyperalert, scanning every shadow, analyzing every rustle of leaves. In this place, you never know what monster might lurk just out of sight. Even though most of the guards keep their distance now, wary after Maksim’s brutal displays of dominance, there are still plenty who willinglyparticipate in the horrors inflicted here, their souls as corrupted as Ivan's.
A glance at my watch confirms it’s late, nearly 11 p.m. A strange urgency quickens my steps. More than ever, I need to see Zoya, make sure she's okay. There’s something heavy in the air tonight, something rotten and unsettling that feels like it’s clinging to my skin, raising the hairs on my arms.
The cottage is dark, no lights visible through the windows. Just as I reach the door, hand raised to knock, the distinct sound of shattering glass erupts from within. Instinct takes over. My hand immediately goes to the pistol holstered securely at the small of my back.
Easing the door open silently, I strain my ears, trying to recall the cottage layout, anticipating blind corners, potential threats. A faint, flickering light, like candlelight, spills from a room farther down the short hallway. Pistol raised, held steady in a two-handed grip, I move toward it, each footstep measured, silent on the worn floorboards.
"Leave me alone!" A ragged voice, strained and unfamiliar, rips through the silence.What the hell is going on?
As the room comes into focus, the scene unfolding before me registers with sickening clarity. It takes exactly three seconds, three heartbeats, to assess, decide, and act. My finger tightens on the trigger.
The shot cracks through the stillness. Zoya cries out, stumbling back, clutching her arm where the bullet grazed flesh, superficial, intended only to disable, not kill, before collapsing off the small form beneath her. A young boy, maybe seven or eight, gasps for air, raw red marks already blooming on his neck where her hands had been clamped just moments before.
Zoya glares at me, her eyes wild, unhinged, feral in the flickering candlelight. The sweet, shy girl I know is gone, replaced by this…stranger. "I'll kill you," she snarls, the voice guttural, unrecognizable.
My mind struggles to reconcile this image—this savage creature—with the Zoya I know. Where is the girl with the colorful dresses who pouted when her pudding recipe failed? The timid young woman who ducked her head shyly at compliments?
