Page 14 of Ivory Ashes

Raoul ignores him and steers us back to business. “Did you tell your father about the plan?”

“As much as he needs to know.”

“Does he know you’re planning to ally with the Greeks?”

Anatoly whistles. “If you were sick of Helen before… She’s going to be all over you now. Maybe she’ll convince you to break this pious monk act of yours.”

I scowl at Anatoly, who has the good sense to look apologetic.

We don’t talk about Alyona. Directly, indirectly—it doesn’t matter. Anatoly knows that and he holds up his hands in surrender. As a nice bonus, his guilt keeps him from looking directly at me and noticing the half-mast hard-on tenting my pants at the thought of just how thoroughly I broke my “pious monk act” last night.

I readjust discreetly. “Helen can’t convince me of anything. Least of all that.”

Viviana, on the other hand…

The way her lips wrapped around my name when she came. Fuck… those lips would have looked good around my cock. I should have stayed. Should’ve dragged the night into the morning.

No one would be calling me a monk if they knew the thoughts swirling around my head.

“Where is Viviana?” Raoul asks suddenly.

It jerks me out of my regrets. For a second, I think he knows about what we did last night.

Then he adds softly, “I heard you tell your father… Is she really dead?”

“She might as well be.” I shove every thought of her down deep. If I don’t give them air, they’ll suffocate. They’ll disappear and she’ll be gone for good. “We’re never going to see her again.”

5

VIVIANA

SIX YEARS LATER

“I don’t sound frazzled because I’m not frazzled,” I insist, phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder. I slide a pair of socks and a sticky bowl of half-eaten yogurt to the end of the counter, but still no keys.

If this shoebox-sized apartment had an entryway, I’d have a little table by the door to keep my keys. I guess I could install a hook, but that would require knowing how to install a hook. Better yet, I’ll have my keys surgically stapled to my hand. Maybe then I wouldn’t lose them every single day.

“I can call you later if you’re busy. We don’t have to do this now.”

“I’m not busy, Bianca. I’m just—Fuck!” My pinky toe makes direct contact with the wooden leg of a barstool and, call me dramatic, but I swear there has never been pain this intense in all of human history.

I kick out at the barstool again with my other foot. More pain is worth teaching it a lesson.

“You can call me later when you?—”

“I’m—ow—fine.” I shove the chair into the counter more aggressively than necessary for an inanimate object and take a deep breath. “I stubbed my toe, but I’m fine. I’m fine and everything is fine and I can chat right now.”

I’m running late for work, I can’t find the keys to my front door, and there’s a pile of dishes in my sink that, given another day or two, could become a biohazard. But I’m fine. Everything is fine.

It has to be.

“Are you sure?” Bianca asks. I can imagine her chewing her nail polish off right about now. She hates conflict, which is making this phone call absolute hell for her, I’m sure. I decide if I can’t ease my own burdens, I can at least ease hers.

“This is about Friday, right?” I ask. “You’re busy and that’s totally fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“But you have that gala for work.”

“I know and I’ll figure something else out.”

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