Page 64 of Rule of Three

He smirks, looping his index finger through mine. “A touch of anger looks good on you, malyshka.”

Before I can blow up at him, he pecks my lips and spins me back around to continue the tour.

Francesca is waiting patiently, but her face is pinched like she really doesn’t want to be here anymore. I can’t say I blame her.

I think Mikhail likes to take me on detours that are anything but fun.

The tour continues, but I’m paying much less attention than before. My thoughts keep swirling back to my grandmother. Is she okay, or is she in danger? Is it only Mikhail that hates her, or do others I know nothing about? Is it because she left without warning five years ago, or for something else?

Ten minutes pass before we stop in front of a row of framed photographs hanging on the wall. They range from black and white, grainy images to clearer ones, bright with color.

“Here, you can see when the home was founded,” Francesca tells us, gesturing toward the oldest of the bunch.

A date gleams up from the bottom edge of the frame, the metallic gold shining to perfection. I glance at each frame along the wall, and every single one has a similarly metallic date imprinted along the bottom. Every ten years, it seems they took a new photograph of the orphanage’s staff and its children.

How morbid.

I scan the photographs with feigned interest, knowing I won’t recognize a single soul photographed within, when all of a sudden, I do.

Third photograph from the end. A woman with long, dark hair beams at me as she sits on bright green grass, surrounded by a dozen children and young teenagers. She looks just like me, and my heart seizes at how happy she is.

Mom.

“It’s tradition for the pakhan’s wife to look after this place,” Mikhail explains from behind me.

The picture immediately following it looks similar, only this time, my mom has a little girl in her arms—one with hair as dark as hers and eyes a brilliant emerald that even the camera lens couldn’t hide.

Me.

“I’ve been here before,” I gasp, pressing my face close enough to the glass that it fogs under my breath. I stare at my younger self, not believing what I’m seeing. “I was young.” About five years old, to be exact. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize this place.

One young man standing beside my mom catches my eye, his hair as dark as his eyes, his arms crossed and his jaw set, a familiar black-and-gray tattoo curving across his bicep.

“Is that . . .”

There’s no way it’s him. What would Ezra be doing in a home for orphaned kids?

I brush my fingertips over the familiar brooding expression, recognizing it, even though the boy in the picture can’t be older than sixteen. My eyes drift to the boy next to him, and another shock jolts my system.

Andrei is here too.

“See something?” Mikhail asks, placing his hand on my hip as he leans over my shoulder. Francesca might be fooled, but I’m not. He’s not interested in the photo. He just wants to touch me and worm back into my good graces by playing nice.

“No.” I sidestep away from him and move on to the next photo. My mother’s still there, along with a younger version of my grandmother, but I’m pointedly missing.

I must have been locked away in my tower, I think bitterly, frowning at my mother’s empty arms. I move to the next image and try to find my mother, but this time, she’s missing. Instead, two men stand solemnly in the front of a group of stoic children. No one is smiling. But as I squint between the two latest pictures, I see both of my men standing proud.

Teenagers in one.

Men in the other.

After my mother’s death, someone had to keep this place running. Who better than a pakhan and his right-hand men, especially if the pakhan himself was raised within its walls?

“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, finally looking at Mikhail dead on.

He doesn’t shy away from my gaze. It’s like he welcomes it, no matter what I’m feeling in the moment. Because right now, I definitely don’t feel fond of him after he basically threatened to kill my last living relative.

“You need to know what will be expected of you.” He leans against the opposite wall and kicks his feet out. Despite his professional attire, he sure doesn’t carry himself like a businessman. “When you marry Andrei and assume all duties of a pakhan’s wife, you need to be prepared. Certain things...” He purses his lips, like he doesn’t like or agree with this next part. “Certain expectations will be there.”

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