Page 102 of Wicked Arrangement

It takes all my willpower not to physically recoil from him. Something about the man repulses me. Perhaps it is just his rude, entitled manner and barely veiled racism, but I hope that our proper introduction isn’t any time soon.

To make Yaroslav happy, I choke out, “You too, Mr. Volkov.”

Innokentiy bares his wolf grin at me once more but doesn’t respond. He completely ignores David and nods at both Artem and Vova uttering, “Gentlemen,” before allowing Yaroslav to escort him outside.

I want to reach out to David and ask if he’s okay, but the second the door shuts he races upstairs toward his room, slamming the door behind him.

“Is he okay?” I ask worriedly.

“He’ll be fine,” Artem assures me, “Their relationship is… complicated.”

“You go, Artem, I’ll escort Miss Walsh to her room,” Vova says.

Artem nods in agreement and heads upstairs with David’s bags. It makes sense that he’d be the one to follow David, they seem to get along well, and Vova’s a wet fish—not exactly the kind of person you want comforting you.

“I could…” I start to offer to go speak to David, but Vova cuts me off.

“No. He’ll be fine. Orders are to escort you upstairs when you arrive so that’s what I’m gonna do,” he states leaving no room for disagreement.

He walks me back to the same room I was in before in silence. Already I feel anxious, as though the time at the Gillihans didn’t happen and I’m right back to feeling like a prisoner again.

Perhaps sensing my emotions, Vova leaves me with these parting words: “You’d better hope you continue to stay in Yaroslav’s good books. The rest of the pack aren’t quite so domesticated.”

I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a threat.

Chapter 52

Yaroslav

Ican’t believe my lousy luck. I was hoping Innokentiy would be long gone before David and Kim returned. They’re hours earlier than anticipated, either Gillihan changed the time and I wasn’t informed, or someone changed it. Either that or they had a Formula 1 driver…

Of course, I’m aware that if I’m going to have a future with Kim, she’d have to meet the rest of the family someday, especially Innokentiy, but I’d have preferred to prepare her for it. He’s an old-school man, misogynistic, it took a lot of self-control not to tear his head off for calling Kim a bitch. I could have given the game away that I’ve completely forgiven and trust Kim, alerting the rat and thus losing the upper hand. Luckily, though I’m sure she knew he was being rude, she doesn’t speak Russian and wouldn’t know just how rude.

His and David’s relationship isn’t good at the best of times, especially when he drops in unexpectedly without David knowing, so I wanted to avoid them interacting, too. Kim’s presence there also meant I had to endure more lectures from Innokentiy about what I should and shouldn’t do regarding Kim and our unborn child.

By the time I’m finally able to go and see Kim, it’s not the reconciliation I was hoping for. She’s rummaging through the bags and boxes of her stuff that I had brought here from the old house. For a moment, I panic that she’s packing and planning to leave again when I’ve just got her back. But I realize that she isn’t putting things away, she’s pulling them out, searching forsomething. She’s so absorbed in the task she doesn’t even look up when I enter.

“Hi,” I say softly so as not to startle her.

Her head snaps up, a fear-reflex response, but her expression softens as she looks up at me. “Hi,” she breathes.

She seems to be waiting for me to make the next move, uncertain of her place here. I should reassure her first, but my curiosity wins.

“What are you looking for?”

“Something of Marta’s, for David. He misses her, he said he wished he had more things to remember her by. I thought it might cheer him up after… whatever that was,” she says referring to the meeting with Innokentiy.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, he’s…” I say awkwardly, trying to find the words to explain our complex relationship with our uncle.

“It’s okay, I get it, families are complicated,” she responds, and I feel a surge of love for this kind, compassionate woman.

“You know, I’ve not been into the room Marta used when she stayed here yet, no one has. I... well I couldn’t face it before. But I can check in there later, too,” I offer.

She looks at me with gratitude, “Thank you.” With a sigh, she surveys the destruction of the room, “I should tidy up this mess.”

I sit down to help her and, as we’re putting things away, she spots something, letting out a gasp of triumph. It’s a cell phone.

“Whose is that?” I ask, confused about how this ties into Marta.

---