Page 57 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

Kiril is in the car. Losing blood. Right fucking now.

Zoya stands tentatively in the doorway, giving me a questioning look. She leans on the door frame and asks, “What’s going on?”

I can’t lie to her. Not about this.

I take a deep breath and gesture for her to close the door behind her.

With a steady and low voice, I reply, “Your father is hurt.”

Her face goes white. “Where is he?”

“He’s nearby.”

“How did he get hurt?”

I don’t actually know—but I suspect this was a setup. Done by my husband.

“We’re sending someone to help him,” I assure her. “He’ll be taken care of.”

Her lower lip quivers. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“You don’t need to know more than that,” I add. “You must go to your room and stay there.”

Her eyelids flutter as she backs toward the door. “But—”

I step forward, my voice insistent. “You’ll remain in your room until I tell you otherwise. Is that clear?”

My words are sharper and harsher than I intend, yet they slide easily from my mouth. It’s like I’ve been practicing these lines all day.

Funny, because I never received a script for this.

Another flash warms my body when she nods. She bows her head and whispers, “I’m sorry, Liya Frankovna.”

The door opens. Zoya slips out. The lobby beyond her is calm, rational, controlled. Not a peep of what happened to Kiril has gotten any farther than it needs to right now.

And that’s how it should stay.

If any of the other men catch wind of a failed assassination by the guy who defected and then came crawling back, well, that wouldn’t exactly look particularly good for anyone, would it?

I frown while staring at the ground. Silence penetrates my ears, piercing me in ways that New York traffic can’t.

I didn’t mean to snap at her, I think.It just happened. I need to see what Pavel wants to do next.

I’m in the process of turning toward my husband when his expression makes me freeze. It’s inscrutable. The way his pupils expand as I meet his gaze seems to be the only reaction I get out of him. Otherwise, he might as well be a statue wearing a charcoal gray suit and a cerulean blue tie.

I can’t tell what he’s feeling. Or thinking. Orplanning.

And it makes me a little nervous.

Reading into him hasn’t always been easy, but this is different. I don’t feel anger or pride emanating from him. I feel something else.

A shiver races down my spine.

I lick my lips and whisper, “Pavel?”

His expression snaps. He blinks a few times and then cocks his head, giving me the same look as always—the hard mask, the perfectly capable pakhan ready to do just about anything.

And it’s not until I seethatface that I realize that I’ve seen someone look at me like he did.

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