Page 35 of Conquer
I gasp and bolt upright, placing my hand on his chest. “You didn’t! You devil!” I’m grinning ear to ear, though, even as I feign utter shock. “I, good Sir, am a lady far beyond the machinations of revenge.”
“Of course,” he concedes, drawing me back to him, his lips brushing my forehead. “As am I. As am I…”
Hours later, when we finally pull up to the house, I’m alarmed to find that I’m not anywhere near as homesick as I’d assumed I would be. My family home in California is a beautiful oasis, but when glimpsed in the dappling evening sunset that reflects like embers over the water, I have to admit that Vadim’s home has a certain charm to it.
Even Magda seems affected, skipping up the front walkway, It dangling from her hand. She moves assuredly, with the knowledge that this is hers. Herhome.
But somewhere between the last section of the path and the front door, she stops short. The color drains from her face, and Vadim is before her instantly.
“What’s wrong?” He crouches down, fervently feeling along her forehead. Then he frowns. “Look at me,chérie.”
Magda doesn’t even seem to realize he’s there. Her nostrils flare, her chest heaving as if she’s struggling for air. Desperate to breathe.
“Magdalene,” Vadim says in a stern tone. She blinks, startled, and refocuses on his face.
“I smelled something,” she says, her voice devoid of its usual charm. The resulting effect is a hollow, broken tone that makes me approach her, sinking down beside Vadim. “Do you smell it?”
I sniff and shrug. “Roses?”
Her eyes widen, and she nods, clutching It so tightly her knuckles are white.
“Oh.” Vadim chuckles, ruffling her hair. “Ena has a secret green thumb,” he explains, rising to his feet. “Give him time, and this house will resemble the garden at Tiffany’s family home.”
That seems to mollify her. As if flipping that pesky internal switch, she’s back to her animated self, rearing to enter the house.
“Can we see my pony?” she asks as Vadim gathers our bags and finally unlocks the front door.
“Of course,” he says indulgently. “Let’s put our things away quickly,non? I’m sure we can make it out to our friends before dark.”
They both hasten inside while I take my time savoring the view. Could I learn to call this place home as well? The second I see Magda bound up the stairs, filling the hall with childish clatter, I start to believe I could.
“I’ll make dinner,” I call as Vadim returns downstairs, dressed in a casual pair of slacks and a loose-fitting dress shirt while Magda scampers after him in her riding gear. They race out onto the terrace, Magda’s giggles lingering long after they fade from view.
Left alone, I decide to hone my domestic skills and consider whipping up a meal from scratch. What might I cook safely without risking everyone’s health? Frowning, I open the fridge and peruse the ingredients that Ena’s stocked it with. Finding nothing promising—other than a potential salad—I start toward the pantry, hoping for more convenient options. Like cereal.
Intent on my task, I slip past the fridge, skirting the counter…
And promptly stop short.
A woman is seated at the dining room table, her legs crossed, her slim fingers—each tipped with a sharpened ruby fingernail—tracing patters over the glass surface, her expression the picture of contemplation.
My blood runs cold as she looks up, meeting my gaze.
“I’m surprised, to be honest,” she says, her voice an odd mixture of cutting notes and lilting cadence. Shifting to face me fully, she crosses her arms, observing me with a judgmental flick of her gaze. Her navy dress helps her blend into the monochromatic background, and I wonder, horrified, just how long she’s been sitting here.
Did Magda run right by her?
Or Vadim…
“Dima was always so secretive about his ideal type of woman,” Irina continues, her pink lips quirked in a smirk that doesn’t reach her gaze. Regardless, I stagger back, putting the counter between us, my fingers inching toward one of the drawers containing utensils. The sharp kind.
“How did you even get in here—”
“I’d assumed, it was because his standards were higher than he’d care to admit,” she says, continuing as if I’d never spoken. “He was always so…obsessive with perfection.” She frowns wistfully, her head cocked, gaze reflective. Then she shakes her head, sending her blond waves tumbling down her shoulders. “I will admit that it is disappointing to realize that I was wrong. The boy he was could never resist a sweet. Cheap, tawdry, fleeting joy.”
I stiffen, recognizing an insult when I hear it. Squaring my shoulders, I swallow hard, schooling my expression into a mask of cool politeness. At the same time, my eyes dart to the glass door, hunting for Vadim. Ena.Anyone.
But with no witness in sight, my only course of action is to stay on guard. “You should go—”
