Page 27 of Emerald Malice

Shura takes a step into the room, cracking his knuckles. “I could loosen his jaw for you, ‘Drey.”

I pretend to think about it. “He might be smarter than he looks. Maybe you won’t need to rearrange his face before he learns he’s fighting a losing battle.”

“You don’t scare me,” the boy says. “None of you do.”

I actually believe him. This kid’s been through a lot. I know the look of cigarette burns on the inside of his forearms—God knows he didn’t put them there himself. The neat row of them is entirely too organized to have been an accident, either.

“Fair enough. Shura, he’s all yours.” I start to walk away.

I don’t get far before the boy’s voice echoes against the stone walls. “Wait…!”

I turn, oozing disinterested. “Yes?”

“Wh-what are you going to do with me?” As soon as the words are out, he winces. He looks furious with himself for stuttering.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say honestly.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Not today.” I turn to Shura and Anatoly. “I want him moved to my estate tomorrow. He won’t get freedom of the grounds, but make sure he’s cleaned up and given a proper meal.”

Anatoly’s eyebrow arches. “You sure you want to waste a good meal on this street rat? He’s a dead man walk?—”

“Misha.”

All three of us turn to the boy. “What was that?” I ask.

His blue eyes are fixed on mine, level and unafraid. “My name is Misha.”

“Then I have a question for you, Misha. One that doesn’t require you to snitch.” He looks suspicious, but he says nothing. “Is the name ‘Natalia Boone’ familiar to you?”

The lack of any reaction says it’s not.

“What about Katya Petrova?”

He shakes his head.

Fuck. I was hoping for a reason to justify visiting the little lastochka again, but it seems she really is a dead end.

It’s just as well. I have enough on my plate. I may have stopped Nikolai Rostov’s skin trade for the time being, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped him.

We’re a long way from the end of this story.

10

NATALIA

THREE MONTHS LATER

I’ve gotta hand it to Kat: she’s trying.

Short of chaining herself to my apartment door like a climate change activist, she’s made every attempt to right her wrong—well, wrongs, multiple—from the night of the Kuznetsov wedding fiasco.

She’s sent flowers, chocolates, skincare products. She even bought a special edition of Wuthering Heights that I’ve had on my wishlist for years. After I slammed the door in her face and told her that my forgiveness couldn’t be bought and our friendship was long overdue for a break and a serious reevaluation, she showed up with a neon yellow boombox and a stack of massive flash cards. While The Goo Goo Dolls’ song “Iris” blasted through the speakers, she flipped one large card after the other, Love Actually style.

I know I’ve been a bad friend.

I know I’m a stubborn bitch with bad judgment.

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