Page 124 of Inked Athena

And another.

And another.

I lose count of how many people come to pay respects—each more expensively dressed than the last, each with harder eyes and colder smiles. Their wives drift by like exotic birds in couture plumage, appraising me with sharp glances, but the women know better than to speak, it seems.

I scan the crowd. I don’t know if it’s Samuil’s influence or my own paranoia, but I can’t help categorizing faces into potential threats. This man’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. That one’s hand lingers too long on Samuil’s shoulder. That group over there whispers too suspiciously and stares too intently.

This world is still mostly foreign to me, but it’s beginning to take on a fuzzy, indistinct shape. I get the gist, if not the details.

And the gist is that we are seated on a precarious throne. Leonid built his empire on broken bones and stolen dreams. Now, all his enemies will be circling Samuil like sharks scenting blood in the water. Wondering if he’s fit to take up his father’s place.

And that’s on top of Ilya and Katerina and the Andropovs still gunning for him. God only knows which pocket of shadow they’re lurking in.

My free hand drifts to my stomach. The baby kicks.It’s okay, little one,I think to it, trying to send telepathic messages of soothing.Sam is going to take care of us.

But even as I say it, I can’t help but feel that pang of hot anger low in my gut. Listening to him turn down that FBI agent’s offer… It felt like a slap in the face. From where I stood, it seemed like he had the key to a happy ending being handed to him on a silver platter. And he saidno.

I want to understand why. I trust him, I do, I swear I do.

But trust is a hard thing to cling to when everyone around us has murder in their stare.

A flash of familiar blonde hair catches my eye, and my heart stutters. But when I look again, it’s gone—swallowed by the sea of black suits and somber dresses filing into the church.

I must have imagined it.

“Could we find somewhere to sit, Samuil?” I whisper to him during a break in the tide of well-wishers. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

Sam’s gaze darts to me in concern. Then he snaps his fingers and the crowd parts. His arm is tight around my waist as he guides me to the pew in the front of the cathedral. I sink onto it gratefully. My hands shake slightly as I smooth my dress over my thighs.

“Water’s coming,” Samuil murmurs, his thumb brushing my cheek. “And Myles will stay with you during the service.”

Myles materializes beside us. “I’ve got your six, Nova. Not leaving your side until the boss says otherwise.”

I manage a weak smile. Grams, Hope, and the dogs are back in Scotland for their own safety, but having Myles here helps—he’s become like a brother to me these past months. A brother whocould probably snap a man’s neck with his pinky finger, but isn’t that what brothers are supposed to be for?

The water arrives a moment later. I take small sips, willing my stomach to settle and my head to stop spinning.

But as more people file into the cathedral, the air grows thick with incense and whispered Russian. My nausea rises again, and this time, it’s not just morning sickness. It’s the weight of a hundred calculating sneers boring into my skull from every angle.

It’s almost funny how trite and standard the service is. Who picked this? Who approved this? Myself and most of the people in here have met Leonid Litvinov, and cliched eulogies about his “generosity” are outright laughable. I’d sooner have expected Satan himself to come conduct proceedings. Not this stooped, graying Russian Orthodox priest with a voice that barely rises above a dull mumble.

Aslow,dull mumble, at that.

The service drags like a funeral dirge played at quarter-speed. The priest’s voice rises and falls in waves of Russian I don’t understand. The incense keeps burning. A pot too close to me spews smoke, making my nostrils sting and my eyes water.

Or maybe those are real tears. It’s hard to tell anymore.

I shift on the hard, wooden pew for the thousandth time, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my lower back scream in protest. The baby is equally uncomfortable. He or she does somersaults, stomping against my bladder with determined little feet.

Beside me, Samuil sits like a statue carved from granite. His shoulders are squared, his chin lifted. Only the muscle thrumming in his jaw betrays any emotion at all.

I want to reach for his hand again, but something in his rigid posture warns me away.

The endless stream of prayers and hymns finally peters out. As the last notes of the choir fade away, a collective exhale seems to ripple through the crowd. No one wanted to be here—not really. This was obligation, not grief.

I struggle to my feet, my pregnant body protesting every movement. The pressure on my bladder has reached critical mass.

“Myles.” I catch his eye and make a desperate gesture.

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