Page 142 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

32

BELLE

The moment my eyes open, I feel his absence.

I sit up and take stock of the plush white comforter wrapped around me. That’s new. Nikolai must have brought it to me after I fell asleep. The note sitting on the glass-topped coffee table is new, too.

I reach for the folded piece of paper. I expect it to be from Nikolai, but then I recognize Elise’s cramped scrawl.

My heart clenches with morbid possibilities. She ran away again. This is her goodbye letter. I knew her attitude last night was too good to be true. It was a trick. A ruse so she could slip away while I was in a sugar/Nikolai coma.

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself.

After a few deep inhales and exhales, I calm down enough to actually read what Elise wrote.

B—

You were basically unconscious when we left (seriously, there was drool), so we didn’t wake you. Nikolai is taking me to the farm to work today. He said he’ll send a car for me this afternoon. Smell you later!

—E

Thank god. She’s safe. She’s taken care of.

For a moment, I luxuriate in the fact that someone else took care of Elise for me this morning. If I didn’t feel so relaxed right now, I’d feel guilty about how relaxed I feel.

Taking care of my sister was my choice, and I’d make it a thousand times over again. But damn if it isn’t a hard job.

I swipe at my face and cringe when I feel a crust of drool. “Oh dear,” I mutter to myself, “that’s not cute.”

Wrapping the comforter around my shoulders, I shuffle away from the couch and into my room. But the moment I walk through the door, I stop in my tracks.

“What the—” I creep slowly towards the bed, blinking like the pile of art supplies spread across the comforter might disappear. “Who did—”

Then I see a second note. This one has my name written on the front in broad, angular print. Jesus, even his handwriting is confident.

Deny it all you want, but you’re talented. I have the proof folded up in my wallet. I have to work all day today. Relax and enjoy the art supplies.

—N.Z.

By the time I finish reading, I have a goofy grin on my face that I just can’t wipe off. If Nikolai was here to witness it, it would definitely rank on my list of most embarrassing moments. But thankfully, I’m alone.

I drop into the desk chair, crack the spine on my new leather sketchbook, and reach for the fineliner pens.

* * *

I’m so lost in my sketching that I don't hear the knock on the door. Or maybe I do, but my brain is too busy to worry about it or figure out what the sound means. A much more pressing matter is whether to build a balcony on the right side of the house coming off the second floor or add a four seasons room off the first floor.

Then the person knocks again, and I sit up.

"Ouch," I groan, pressing a hand to my achy lower back.

How long has it been since I stood up?My stomach growls.Or since I ate?

I look at the clock over the stove in the kitchenette and my eyes almost bug out of my head. "How is it already almost four in the afternoon?" I exclaim to no one.

I haven't showered or eaten or changed. I just sat all day and sketched. I filled three pages of my sketchbook from margin to margin.

On one hand, I can’t believe I wasted an entire day. On the other hand, I can’t remember the last time I had a day to myself to do whatever I wanted. The last time I got so lost in a task that the world around me disappeared.

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