Page 99 of Monstrous Urges

“I do.”

I have to believe that change is possible. That people can evolve past what they were into something new.

I have to.

Or else I’m truly damned.

22

TAYLOR

“My, my.”

Her pale, violet eyes sweep over me appraisingly, a silvery-white brow cocked.

“You’ve really grown up, haven’t you?” Yelizaveta Solovyova’s lips twist up at the corners. “You look just like your mother, you know.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. I may not remember her at all—in fact, I only have a few old photos of my mom from my great-aunt—but it’s been a long, long time since anyone’s said that to me. Florence used to tell me the same thing.

We’re sitting—Drazen, Yelizaveta, and I—in one of the opulent, Mediterranean-styled courtyards of Drazen’s house. Two potted olive trees stand attention near the soft couches and chairs around the low table we’re all sitting at. A warm, soft ocean breeze wafts in from the arched doorways that lead out to a balcony over the cliffs.

I smile at the White Queen herself, who I know from my lessons with Yaelle is the head of the Solovyova Bratva. She’s also the de facto head of the Iron Table collective, even though technically no one family is in charge.

Still, Yelizaveta clearly has power that may rival even Drazen’s. Plus, she has the respect and loyalty of the Iron Table.

That’s why she’s here today. In a week, Drazen and I will attend the Zolotoye Zavtra—the “Golden Tomorrow”—Gala in Moscow. Ostensibly, it’s a fundraiser for Russian politicians to mingle with big-ticket political donors.

In reality, it’s a way for the families of the Iron Table to show off which politician they’ve each bought, like a huge flex. It’s there that I’ll have my first “outing” as Annika Brancovich and meet the members of the Table.

Yelizaveta, however, decided she wanted to meet with me alone before the gala. The translucently pale older woman sizes me up from across the table.

“Did you know my mother well, Ms. Solovyova?”

The White Queen, famously, never married.

“Slightly, yes,” she says coolly, taking a sip of her tea.

I shiver as Drazen leans back in the loveseat next to me, his muscled arm draping possessively over my shoulders, his hand resting on the far one.

Yelizaveta obviously notices. But she ignores it.

“Your father was actually my godson.”

My brow arches in genuine shock. “I…didn’t know that.”

“Well, you did,” she smiles politely. “At one point.”

My lips twist. “Apologies. I’m sure Drazen has filled you in on the gaps in my memory.”

“Gaps”. That’s what we’re calling them. Drazen thought it was best not to mention the complete loss of memory before the age of eighteen, and I agree. I still don’t know the exact specifics of his business with the Iron Table, but even without them, it’s obvious me having zero memory might complicate things.

“Yes, I was good friends with Drazen’s grandparents, on his father’s side. His mother’s side”…she chuckles to herself…“well, obviously not so much.”

The furrow in my brow catches her attention.

“You don’t remember?”

I shake my head. My entire being feels like it’s on edge, hanging on her every word for any scraps of my past she might be able to feed me.

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