Page 5 of King’s Promise

I connect my phone to a portable speaker in the kitchen and return upstairs where I remove myself from the fiasco outside my front door. I’m in the midst of reading a textbook but jump when my phone rings. I’m alarmed when I connect the area code to one within Russia.

Shit, shit and more shit.

This can’t be him, can it?

“Privit,” I answer in Russian.

“You can speak English, Anya?”

“Yes.”

“This is Nikolay, text me your address. I’m getting off the jet now.”

“How do I know it’s really you?”

“Our fathers came from a poor small town of Úglich, and their first business venture was making magnets to sell to tourists in the cities.”

“How do I know you didn’t just look that up?”

“Because it’s not online. Russia doesn’t put anything on a computer they don’t want to exploit.”

He has a point.

“Fine,” I relinquish my address, “and I have a gun. Just so you are aware.”

I hear him chuckle before he hangs up.

I dive through my nightstand for a gun registered to my father. I’m sure I’d be in trouble for having it, but no one comes here, one of the rules Papa made me follow. I carry it downstairs to the kitchen and throw a fashion magazine over it to hide it in plain sight, so to speak. I learned that in a mafia movie.

My hands shake just touching the strong, sleek metal of the gun knowing it can take a life. I don’t know if I could pull the trigger, but assume if it’s my life or a killer’s, I’ll defend myself. I’m glad I don’t have to rely on my street smarts to make a living because I wasn’t raised like my father.

I run back up the steps and take a quick shower, my heart is pounding. I have no idea what Nikolay looks like, I don’t remember ever meeting him, we’ve lived in England for so many years. With my luck he will be a fat, hairy Russian who reeks of vodka.

I towel off and blot makeup under my eyes to hide how puffy they are from crying earlier this morning, or was it in the middle of the night? It was dark when Mum woke me up.

I blow out my blond hair with the hair dryer, and about burn my scalp as I’m in a rush. When I’ve finished, I check my look in the bathroom mirror and add a touch of mascara to my eyelashes to accent my sapphire-colored eyes.

Did I overdo it? I don’t want him to think I’m going out of my way to impress him. My business class ingrained upon us one fact of truism, which is, I only have one chance to make a good impression. I figure, going the distance now might give me leverage to talk him out of our arranged marriage. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be married any more than I do. It will be an easy sell.

I slip into my most expensive four-inch heels to make sure I’m not dwarfed next to a tall man and chuckle at the name Choo, a funny name, because it reminds me of an old train, but it’s great for branding. No sooner do I plump up the pillows on the couch when there is a distinct knock at the back door.

I race to it, wondering who jumped a wall to get in my back yard and I find myself looking through the peephole and into the eyes of a stranger, who is holding a Russian chocolate bar as if it’s a white flag. Maybe he just thinks it’s his lucky day and I’ll fall for it.

Hurrumph.

I open the door. “How did you get back here?”

“No hello?” he chides me as he waltzes in like he owns the place causing my jaw to drop. “You have quite the gathering in the front of your flat. I jumped the gate.” He hands me the chocolate. “It wasn’t that difficult.” He breezes by me and glances around my flat.

“Nikolay,” I murmur.

He turns, his long trench coat swings behind him, reminding me of Donald Sutherland in iconic movies from the 80s. Damn if he’s not impressive. Immediately, I hate myself for even considering the fact he’s dreamy in a dark way. His brooding eyes don’t smile, and he asks for something to drink.

I want to lash out. I’m not a maid, but prepare him a glass of water instead, aware of his eyes on my butt. I squeezed into my skinny jeans and threw on a trendy sweater designed to fall naturally off one shoulder. The multicolor knit blends in with my dark orange bra strap.

I take three strides to reach the table and find him already sitting, my gun in his hands.

Holy fuck, did I open my door to a killer?

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