Page 6 of BRATVA'S Poisoner Bride
This is Piotr’s nephew. His blood. His world.
And mine, whispers something traitorous inside me.
I straighten my shoulders, careful to keep the door between us like a shield, my body angled so he sees less of the inside of the house and more of my refusal.
“As I said,” I repeat, quieter, “you’ll have to come back when my father is here.”
Most men would accept that. At least pretend to. Diomid doesn’t move. His gaze doesn’t waver. He studies me for a moment that stretches too long, the silence between us filling with all the things I won’t say.
“I won’t keep you,” he says eventually. “I just need to ask some questions. Business. Contracts. Agreements. I thought he might have left word with you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “He didn’t.”
He hums, a thoughtful sound that does nothing to help steady the flutter under my ribs. The air smells faintly of car exhaust and something sharper, cleaner. His cologne, maybe, threaded with cold air and the barest hint of leather.
“What about you?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. “What about me?”
“Do you have questions?” His gaze flickers, just once, toward my left hand. The naked ring finger. “Some people find themselves… unmoored, after a death like this. After an engagement ends so suddenly.”
The words are neutral. On the surface, they’re nothing but polite concern. But underneath, they slice.
He saw me at the coffin. He saw the way I didn’t cry. He saw the way my lips touched the icon and not the man. He saw the ring too, a glittering piece of Piotr’s ego on my hand.
Now he sees its absence.
The panic that tries to rise this time isn’t the wild, choking kind I used to feel in Piotr’s presence. It’s narrower, targeted, like a knife turned inward.
He knows.
No. He suspects.
There’s a difference. A thin one. Dangerous.
He can’t prove anything. No one can.
“I’m fine,” I say. The lie tastes like ash on my tongue, dry and clingy. “I’m… adjusting. But I don’t have questions. The engagement was only a week. There wasn’t much to end and I expect nothing from his estate.”
He had it with him that day in my fathers office. Slid it onto my finger while my hands trembled with what I knew was about to happen, though he assumed it was nerves and excitement. I’d left the room on my fathers orders to fetch a new bottle of vodka to toast with, taking my time on purpose, and when I’d returned the tea was already gone.
I thanked whatever was looking down on me, hoping it was my grandmother. Or my mother. Hoping that they had had a hand in this too so I didn’t have to shoulder the weight of it alone. Accepting that I would.
Something flashes across Diomid’s face.
“A week,” he repeats softly. “Long enough for most women to become very attached to a diamond like the one on your finger at the funeral.”
That ring had felt heavy on my hand, an iron shackle disguised as a promise. I’d stared at it that first night until my vision blurred, trying to imagine what my life would look like with it always there.
Then I’d thought about my mother.
My body moves before my mind catches up.
“Wait here,” I say, taking a step back.
I don’t know why I’m doing this until I’m halfway down the hall, the old runner muffling my footsteps. The house feels different with him standing in the doorway behind me, less like a tomb, more like a held breath. My heart beats too loudly in my ears.
In my bedroom, the light is softer, filtered through thin voile. I cross to my dresser. The ring sits on the shelf of the mirror where I left it after yesterday the funeral, unable to bear the weight of it any longer.
