Page 209 of Heart of Frost and Scars

We sit at the bar and put on smiles while Kody sails through the opening of a shiny, promising future.

When we arrive on the island in the dead of night, Sirena is still missing.

45

Monty

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Three days later, the hunt for Sirena Fisher continues.

What a fucking nightmare.

My head pounds as I stand at the kitchen sink and guzzle water and aspirin.

Leo and Kody are in Sitka today. But not without their bodyguards. Kody needs to be at the distillery while they work through typical growing pains. Leo is meeting with contractors to do walk-throughs of his seaplane base, mapping out the water for landings and takeoffs, the appurtenant shore, hangars, and facilities. He has a lot of decisions to make over the next few weeks.

Frankie isn’t scheduled to work at the hospital until next week and hasn’t left the island since Sirena went missing.

Thank fuck for that.

As much as she resents Sirena, she’s worried about her. My wife has become withdrawn, quiet, seemingly lost in her head.

All of this puts me on edge.

“What?” I brace my hands on the counter, refusing to meet the judgmental eyes at my back.

“You need to eat,” Oliver says in an unruffled tone.

“That’s not why you’re here, digging your beady little eyes into my skin.”

“So uptight. You need to get laid.”

“Also, not why you’re here.”

“You’re right.” He drifts closer.

I don’t hear him moving, but I feel him like a shadow creeping up my spine.

Peering over my shoulder, I don’t find him there.

What the fuck?

I twist, glancing over my other shoulder.

When did he move to the other side of the kitchen island?

He glares at me with a carving knife poised in his hand.

Fucking creepy.

The blade drips with juices from the slab of meat he’s cutting. While wearing a suit, no less. The gold watch chain glints under the soft kitchen lights as he studies me.

If I didn’t know better, I would suspect him of sending morbid gifts to my wife. His hidden accent and old-world manners hint at a sophisticated yet dangerous past.

But over the years, I have dug and dug, trying to unearth dirt on Oliver Popov.

He’s just an old Russian chef, who manages my diet and well-being with a precision that borders on obsessive.

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