Page 162 of Ivory Ashes

“If you stay here, you’re dead.”

The finality in his words splashes over me like a glass of ice water. For the first time in… I have no idea how many days, I feel wide awake.

“But you said Mikhail would regret if he?—”

“Iakov wants you dead,” Anatoly explains, shoving handfuls of random clothes into the trash bag. I see him scoop up a bikini and a winter hat in the same fist. “The only way to end the war with the Greeks and keep Dante safe is for Mikhail to marry Helen, but Iakov demanded that we give you to him as an honor killing.”

Anatoly is telling me that Iakov wants me dead, but all I can focus on is, “Mikhail is going to marry Helen?”

Anatoly grabs my arm, peering into my eyes. “If we don’t move now, you aren’t going to get out of here alive. Be sad and jealous later. Right now, you need to live.”

I am nowhere close to understanding what is happening here, but I trust Anatoly. So I bend down and yank my duffel bag from under the bed. “Leave the trash bag here. You packed a bunch of nonsense. I’ve had the essentials packed for days.”

Despite it all, Anatoly smirks. “I knew you had some fight left in you, Viv. Now, let’s go.”

He looks both ways in the hallway and then heads for the stairs. I freeze in my doorway.

“Dante.”

Anatoly hesitates, checking to make sure we’re still alone. “He’s already downstairs in the car. I carried him down asleep.”

Dante is a heavy sleeper. Last December, he slept through the back half of a Christmas orchestra concert and for the entire train ride home. Hopefully, he stays asleep through whatever comes next.

The house is dark as Anatoly and I make our way down the stairs and across the first floor.

I keep expecting someone to pop out of the shadows to stop us, but the house is silent. Even Stella seems to be in bed for the night.

I look around, wondering when I’ll see it all again. Somehow, this mansion became home. The people inside of it, even more so.

I don’t want to leave.

But Anatoly holds the garage door open and ushers me inside. The garage is as dark as the rest of the house, but I don’t dare turn on a light.

“Your car?” I assume, nodding to Anatoly’s green jeep in the farthest parking space from the door.

Anatoly shakes his head and points to the black sedan in the center.

“We’re taking Pyotr’s car?”

“He comes and goes all the time,” Anatoly explains. “No one asks questions.”

Who would be asking questions? The guards? Mikhail?

I lug my duffel bag towards the car and notice a blanket-covered lump in the backseat. I toss my duffel bag into the passenger seat and move to open the back door.

“Where are you going?” Anatoly asks.

“I’m going to sit with Dante.” I pull open the back door, but before I can slide inside, Anatoly is behind me. He grabs my shoulders and hauls me back.

“What?” I hiss. “I won’t wake him up.”

“That isn’t Dante.”

Anatoly holds out a hand to keep me back and peers into the backseat like he’s waiting for the lump to explode.

“What do you mean, it isn’t Dante?” My heart is like a jackhammer against my ribs. “He’s supposed to be here.”

Isn’t he?

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