Page 185 of Lethal Legacy

Whatever comes next, Roman has earned the right to be part of my decisions. And however much he’s withdrawn from me, I can’t live with all the secrets anymore.

But most of all, I’m going to talk to him because those three children deserve better than to go to sleep every night wondering what losses tomorrow might bring.

I go to the cupboard in my bedroom and pull out my old bag.

My go-bag, as I always think of it. It’s a scuffed backpack, small enough to be a day bag, big enough to hold what I need.

It’s the same one I carried when I left Miami.

I carried it with me every day after that, for six years. Right up until the day I moved into this apartment and told myself I was safe.

Lance Ryder’s voice runs through my head again, on a disquieting loop:

“He’s been buying up Borovsky safes anonymously for years, Darya. He knows who you are, and he knows why the Orlovs want you. Do you think it’s a coincidence that he’s got you in his home, under such close watch?”

Maybe tonight’s conversation will go well. But maybe it won’t.

Maybe I won’t even get a chance to have it.

I’ve run long enough to sense when danger is close. And right now, I can taste it on the very air around me.

Waiting too long is dangerous.It’s one of the first things my father taught me.

Which means that I need a plan. I need to be ready.

Slowly, my heart heavy as lead, I start to pack.

It’s midmorning when there’s a knock on my door. I open it smiling, expecting the kids.

Instead I’m met by an unsmiling Roman, holding a large bag over his arm. “Can I come in?”

His tone is close to the cold courtesy he used with Inger yesterday. It sends a chill of alarm through my body.

“Of course.” I push open the door, trying to calm the sudden, panicked racing of my heart. My smile falters under his grim stare, which seems to rest anywhere but on me.

Something has happened.Something bad. Worse, I suspect it’s something Roman has no intention of sharing.

The ominous sense of gathering darkness gains momentum in my soul, triggering my old flight instinct. It makes me feel physically sick.

“You’re coming to the Russian Society ball tonight.” Roman drapes the bag over a chair, and I realize there’s a dress beneath a zipped cover. “I took the liberty of getting you a dress and shoes.” He puts both down on the counter.

“The ball?” I frown in confusion. “Why would you want me to—”

“Inger requested that you attend. She wants the children there for the pap walk, and she thought your presence would make that easier.” His eyes touch mine, then slide away. “I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I would very much appreciate your help. It should be over quickly enough.”

I swallow nervously. After all the nights I’ve spent splayed under his hands, our limbs so entwined I can’t tell where mine stop and his begin, everything about the detached formality of this conversation is utterly jarring. Normally I’d reach over and touch him. Catch his eye and smile. Breach the distance.

But this Roman isn’t the man who has laid me out on any available surface and seduced my body, inch by sensual inch. He isn’t the man who played with the children in his mountain pool, sunlight and water turning his dark eyes to fire.

It isn’t the man who has sprawled next to me in the vast king-sized bed most nights for the past two months, one leg thrown possessively across my body.

I don’t know who this Roman is. Only that he’s a cold stranger, as remote from me as some two-dimensional character on a screen.

And, just like that, I’m fucking terrified.

“The makeup and hair people will be here in a few hours,” he says calmly. “The girls will need your help to get ready. Mickey will be out with me for a while, but he’ll be back in time to dress.” He’s still staring somewhere past me. “I’d appreciate it if you could make sure they all get a good lunch and a decent siesta. It will likely be a late night for them, especially Masha.”

“Of course.”

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