Page 43 of Inked Athena

I press my head to the windowpane. Outside, another day bleeds into the constant gray. Endless sheets of water steal away the lastof the evening’s light. The world goes from watercolor green, to slate, to darkness.

It’s been seven days of this. Seven days of meandering down endless halls, of pretending I don’t hear the hushed Russian phone calls behind closed doors, of ignoring the armed men who patrol our grounds with dead eyes and deadly purpose. Seven days of touching my growing belly and wondering if our child will inherit their father’s talent for keeping secrets. Seven days of hoping our baby never learns how family can wound you deepest, the way my father taught me. Sometimes, I catch myself rubbing the scar on my hand and wonder if my father ever loved me at all, or if I was just another thing to control.

During daylight hours, Samuil might as well be a ghost. The only proof he still exists comes from the occasional glimpse of his broad shoulders disappearing around corners, the lingering scent of his cologne in empty rooms, the way his security detail subtly shifts formation when he moves through the castle.

At night, he finds me.

That’s when he materializes like smoke, his heat wrapping around me, his breath carrying promises in Russian against my skin. Every evening, I swear I’ll resist, demand answers, force him to see me as more than a delicate thing to be protected.

And every evening, I fail.

Sex is our only common language now, the sole bridge between his world of violence and my world of waiting. I’m terrified that if we lose this connection, this raw physical need that draws him to my bed no matter how many bodies he had to step over that day, we’ll drift so far apart we’ll never find our way back to each other.

“Don’t fret, m’dear,” Mrs. Morris says, her Scottish lilt cutting through my brooding. “The rain will clear eventually. It always does.”

I turn from the window, forcing a smile. “You said that seven days ago. I stopped believing you five days ago.”

She sets an armful of fresh linens on the bed—crisp, white sheets that probably hide bloodstains better than darker colors. Everything in this castle serves dual purposes. Everyone except me.

“These are the Highlands, lass. The weather can be as wild as the lochs themselves.”

I trace a raindrop’s path down the glass with my fingertip. Wild would be better than this suffocating sameness. At least wild would mean feeling something real.

“Mrs. Morris,” I say, sitting up straighter as an idea claws its way through my melancholy. “The rest of the castle, the unopened wings. Are they condemned?”

She wrinkles her nose, weathered hands smoothing already-perfect linens. “Nothing’s condemned exactly, but—” She hesitates. “Those sections haven’t been touched in centuries. The fireplaces are dead, the rooms are full of God knows what.”

Her warning ignites something in me that’s been dormant since Samuil dragged me to this fortress. A spark of defiance, of purpose. Of power.

“Nothing a little cleaning couldn’t fix,” I say, already mapping out possibilities in my mind. If Samuil wants to keep me locked away in his castle, I might as well claim some territory of my own. “I could help. I want to help.”

She studies me with a frown. “Are you not pleased with the estate as it is now?”

“No! No,” I hurry to tell her with a smile. “Everything has been lovely. You and Mr. Morris have made everything so perfect. I just… want to feel useful. I’d like a project. And I think this could be fun. What do you say?”

I make one more wish—one teeny, tiny wish in hopes that the universe will give me this one thing.

Please let her say yes.

Because if she doesn’t, there isn’t anyone else on the entire grounds who will help.

Her eyes soften. After what feels like years of scrutiny, she says, “You’re the lady of the house, Ms. Nova. Whatever you have in mind, I can’t stop you.”

It’s been way too long since I’ve heard anything like that.

It’s music to my ears.

“Nova!”

Samuil’s voice echoes up the stone staircase and bounces around the high ceilings of the abandoned turret. Or, to be more precise, thepreviouslyabandoned turret.

As of late this afternoon, it’s mine and Samuil’s new bedroom.

“Nova!” he barks again, sending me tunneling deeper beneath the two heavy quilts on the bed.

It’s cold up here, but only because the man Mrs. Morris hired to clean out the fireplace can’t get here until the morning. Knowing that, I probably should’ve opted to wear something other than a silk nightie to bed, but I wanted to mark the occasion. It’s not every day you move your bedroom into the highest point of a Scottish castle.

Samuil illustrates exactly how high it is when he bursts through the door, panting like an enraged bull. His broad chest expands with every breath, but he stills when his eyes land on me beneath the blankets of our four-poster bed.

---