Page 80 of Prince of Control
Tuesday afternoon I head to the Thornecroft bookstore to pick up one of the texts I need for a class when I hear the low tones of men speaking in Russian. Naturally, I turn to look.
Is it one of my friends?
No, it’s an older man–a man who looks like a professor. He must be Baron and Lili’s math professor–Vasiliev. The one Baron said hates him because he knows he’s bratva. He’s talking to Denis.
I haven’t seen Denis since he left Whisper’s End bloodied by my husband. His nose is taped, like it’s been recently broken. My husband’s handiwork, I presume.
Guilt twists in my gut.
At least it was just his nose. I wasn’t sure what the blood had come from.
Not that it excuses Baron’s violence.
Both of them look over at me, and Denis mutters something to the professor as he waves at me.
I wave back with an apologetic look, and he takes it as an invitation and leaves the professor to walk over to me.
“Hi, Denis.” I greet him in Russian. “Did my husband do that?” I wince and point to my own nose. “I’m sorry.”
Denis’ expression is dark. Gone is the friendly puppy. “Yes. I did not report him as a favor to you.” He takes my elbow and pulls me to the side, lowering his head.
I try to shake his touch off. The last thing I need is for Baron to see and get violent again. “Do you need help? Are you in danger? I think he is bratva. Did you know that?”
I have to forcibly pull my elbow from his hand and take a step back. “Yes, I’m a bratva princess, Denis,” I tell him.
I look for shock in his gaze, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he leans his face close again, speaking quietly. “I have connections. I can help you out of this marriage. You don’t have to stay with him.”
Gospodi, he sounds just like Brash. This is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life.
That thought is too much of a downer to even contemplate, so I push it away.
I’m happy with Baron. Mostly. But that’s between the two of us and maybe our families. It’s no one else’s business.
“I don’t need your help,” I say firmly. “But thank you for the offer.”
“Take my number. Call me if you do need help,” he insists.
Right. Like having another man’s number in my phone would go well for me if Baron found out.
“No thank you.” I move away, holding my breath until I sense him leave the bookstore.
It takes me a few minutes to shake off the tense feeling in my gut.
As I check out, I glance out the windows and see Baron walking by. He sees me at the same time and comes to a stop, a smile cracking his normally serious face.
I hold up one finger to tell him I’ll be right out, and he walks toward the doors.
A low voice speaks behind me in Russian. “Stay away from that boy–he’s dangerous.”
I whirl to find the Professor Vasiliev standing behind me in line.
Bozhe moi, I’m getting sick of everyone trying to rescue me. I give him a condemning look as I pick up my new book and the receipt. “Yes, I know you hate Baron.” I lift my chin. “He’s my husband, so you’ll probably hate me too.”
“No, not Baron,” he says. He darts a glance in the direction where I was standing with Denis. “The other one.”
Before I can ask more, the door opens. Vasiliev abruptly turns and walks away just before Baron appears through the door.
I swallow, my heart beating a little too fast.
