Page 124 of Lethal Torture
We arriveat Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall in South Kensington just before seven that evening. The temperature is below freezing, the air like a razor on the skin.
“Roman’s bloody right,” I say, pulling Zin’s coat tighter around her small frame. “He really does owe us for this one.Christ, it’s cold.” I usher her into the warmth, resisting the urge to pull her close to me. We’re still not there, not in public, at least. Her entire staff might have seen through us weeks ago, but everyone is still maintaining the facade of not knowing we spend every spare minute in each other’s beds.
If I’m honest, the novelty of secrecy is beginning to wear thin. Particularly on nights like this, when Zin looks stunning in a black strapless sheath, and all I want to do is pull her to my side and make it clear to every damned man in the place exactly who she belongs to.
Put it on a leash, Macarthur.
Feeling a slight touch brush my side, I glance down to see Zin peeking up at me as she slips her arm through my own. She lifts a shoulder, coloring faintly.
I cover her hand with my own, trying not to let my fierce surge of triumph show. “Hey,” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear. “Is this our first date, do you think?”
Her soft gurgle of laughter turns me warm inside.
“Uncle Luke.”
I turn, my eyes widening at the vision before us. “Ofelia!” I stare at her in amazement. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you.” She colors slightly, kissing Zinaida on both cheeks. “I’m so glad you could both make it.”
“Of course.” Zinaida holds her hands, smiling warmly. “Luke is right. You look incredible, Ofelia.”
Dressed in a halter-neck midnight silk dress, her hair swept up in an elegant roll, with subtle makeup and diamonds glittering down her neck, Ofelia Borovsky isn’t just beautiful. She’s five feet ten of absolute knockout, and by the awed looks of every man in the foyer, that’s not an isolated opinion.
She’s also nervous as hell.
Several years after her horrific ordeal at the hands of the Orlovs, Ofelia hides her emotions with a skill to rival Zinaida’s.But I knew the child she was then, and I’ve watched her grow since. I can recognize the signs. The feverish hint to her cheeks. The way her eyes glitter as they roam the room, as if she’s searching for something.
Or someone.
“I know that your brother will do everything he can to be here,” I say, touching her shoulder reassuringly.
“Oh.” She leaps beneath the touch like a startled deer. “Mickey. Yes.” Her smile is oddly brittle. “Is Mickey—is he coming alone, do you know?”
“Roman wasn’t sure if Alexei and Lars would be with him or not.”
“Oh,” she says again. The way her eyes flare sets my sixth sense tingling. The lobby bell goes, and Ofelia glances nervously around the emptying foyer, visibly pale. “Well,” she says, her voice quivering slightly, “I’d better go and get ready.”
“Ofelia.” Zinaida steps tentatively forward, her expression concerned. “Would you like me to help you? I—well, I know a little about going on stage in front of a lot of people.”
“Um.” Ofelia bites her lip, her eyes sliding slightly guiltily to me, and for a moment, the elegant vision is gone and I see the scared child she once was.
“I know it’s not the same as having your family here, sweetheart,” I say gently, smiling at her. “But it might be nice for you to have someone backstage to keep you company?”
Her eyes flash around the room a final time, and I can tell she’s still hoping that Mickey will walk through the door. “Yes,” she says quietly, and it breaks my heart to see the light of hope in her eyes fading. “Thank you, Zinaida. I’d actually like that.”
The faint look of surprise in Zinaida’s eyes makes my heart twist. Something tells me she’s not at all used to this—to offering emotional support or asking for it.
I stand aside and nod toward the rear door. “After you, ladies.”
“You’re coming with us?” Ofelia rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the softening in her shoulders and face, the slight ease of tension. She might no longer be a teenager, but she carries scars that won’t ever fade, both physically and mentally.
I watch the two of them glide through the foyer ahead of me, one tall, the other tiny, both so stunning the crowd parts before them as if they’re walking the red carpet, and yet also vulnerable in ways I know that crowd cannot begin to understand. I have a sudden, visceral urge to gather them both close, to put my body between them and any threat, real or imagined. In this moment I am not just Zinaida’s security, or even her lover. I’m Roman’s delegate, responsible for his daughter. I’m the wall standing between those two brave, beautiful women and the darkness that both of them were born to, that neither of them will ever truly be able to escape.
This is what family feels like.
The realization hits with such strength it knocks the breath from my body, and my footsteps almost falter.
The last time I felt this kind of protective urge was the night I packed a bag for my sister and me and ran from our stepfather’s fists with Liana’s hand in my own. Back then, I knew she was mine to protect, that it was my job to shield her from any threat she might face. But for a long time now Liana has not only been safe and happy, but likely far better shielded from danger than she would ever be under my personal care. She and her family live in a peaceful, sunlit world, where men with guns and dark intentions have no shadows in which to lurk.
