Page 35 of Devil's Vows
“Security. They’ll make sure you don’t see them when you go outside with the girls. The little ones are unaware of them.”
He directs me away from the window, his fingers stiff on my elbow as he steers me away from the guns, signaling to me he doesn’t like it, either.
It’s hardly reassuring that the girls don’t know about the security and their guns. I’d prefer to have zero bullets flying around, least of all around little humans in my care.
“Here we have the craft room, or school room,” he says. “Whatever you want to call it.”
My heart is a battering ram in my chest as we enter a gorgeous conservatory, flooded with natural light. The room is homey and a complete contradiction to everything else. Petrov seems to exhale as the girls head over to what they were working on last.
I shoot him a smile. “This is awesome.”
On a slow forced exhale, I try to release the aftershocks of every giant curveball that came my way since this morning.
Here we get to play and create. A big table stands center stage, and a stack of paintings has been shoved to the side to make place for clay. The floor is a mess of paper shreds, pieces of wool, clay droppings, crayon tips, and other bits and bobs. Trellised tomatoes, cucumber, and herbs line the one glass wall. The other is filled with shelves holding all kinds of craftmaterials. This needs a cleanup, too, but for all that the house is massive, I haven’t spotted a single cleaner or met the housekeeper yet.
Seeing this room, the way Petrov protects his daughters and how he interacts with them, tells me everything I need to know about Ivan Petrov. He is protective to the core, and I already feel I’m under his wing, just like his girls. He isn’t a threat to me, not of the kind I’m used to when it comes to men. As for Yuri?—
Katya comes up to me, a drawing in her hands. “I made this, Gabi.”
“Oh, Katya, that’s so pretty,” I say, studying her creation and turning a blind eye to the array of red flags of the past few hours. I deflate a little as I force my focus on what’s important: looking after my charges and getting out of here as soon as I’ve figured out how.
But every security measure only spells out how the girls are in danger, or a target—and if so, how could I desert them? I already sense a soft spot for them blooming in my chest. Protecting them comes first, but I wish I could barricade my heart to stop them from crawling right in there. Loving these girls will cost me the day I leave.
“There’s a lot where that’s coming from, and they’ll show you everything,” Petrov says with a wink and a nod in the direction of a stack of painted sheets. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Yes. Is there lunch?” I ask, shooting Yuri a guarded look where he is standing by the door.
“There should be something in the fridge.” He looks at Yuri. “Sort them out.”
The henchman nods.
“You have her phone?” Petrov asks as he steps up to Irisha.
“Yes, Pakhan.”
“Call your brothers and let them know you arrived safely,” he says as he crouches down to his kids.
I arrived in one piece, but I don’t feel safe. Not at all. Not with him leaving and Yuri’s only eye on me, watchful.
“Irisha, Katya. Listen, Gabriella is here to look after you, with Yuri for now, until she knows where everything is,” he says softly as he looks at them one by one. “You’ll help Yuri, won’t you? Show her the playground and the chickens and rabbits and so on.”
They nod. Petrov gives each of his girls a peck on the cheek and strides out of the room.
I feel Yuri’s gaze on me, and it sends pinpricks over my skin. Honestly, after everything, the last thing I want is to be stuck with this stranger and his voice that drills down to the pit of my darkest memories.
And nowchickensandrabbits. I meet Yuri’s gaze and it’s so cold, it chills me. Clearly, I’m the lamb in this equation, making a little detour at the petting farm before I head out to the slaughterhouse.
18
GABI
While Petrov was here, I felt a bit threatened by his presence, his intimidating male body, his confidence, but it was weirdly shrouded in a feeling of being protected, too. Now Yuri comes to stand next to me and I can’t help it—my history with old Russian men burns and echoes like a new brand on delicate skin: scorchingly painful and impossible to ignore. I suppress a shudder.
He pulls a phone from his jacket pocket and I home in on his hand. “Where’s your phone?”
“In Mr. Petrov’s room,” I say, my gaze running over his knuckles and tripping.
My stomach turns slowly as I register the shadows on each knuckle. Old traces of tattoos but now lasered away…mostly.Oh, God—no…
