Page 111 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

Freedom never tasted so sweet.

It’s ridiculous that I’m even calling it that. But after three days trapped in one room, even stepping out into the hallway feels like my first day in heaven.

I’m walking towards the stairs when I see a shadow growing on the wall, coming from around the corner of the hallway. I freeze, wondering if whoever I run into is just going to drag me back into my room and lock me inside again.

Then a maid appears. She is cute, petite, in a demure gray dress with her hair pulled into a neat bun.

“Ma’am.” She sounds respectful. I’ve almost forgotten what that feels like to be talked to like a human being.

“I’m allowed to be out,” I blurt. “Aleks, he… That is, the man—” I stumble desperately, hating myself already, but unable to stop the words from flowing out. “He said I was allowed to go anywhere I wanted within the house. Compound! I meant compound. That includes the garden, right?”

The maid is looking at me as though I’ve gone completely nuts. I can’t really blame her. I’m wondering the same thing myself.

“Of course, ma’am,” she says slowly. “It includes the gardens.”

“Right. Good. So then I’m just… walking.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Can I get you anything?”

“Like what?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Can I offer you something to eat or drink? The kitchen is always fully stocked. The cook went out a little while ago to get provisions for dinner, but there’s always food available if you’re hungry.”

“Oh. I’ll just help myself, thanks.”

“Shall I show you the way?”

“I can manage it myself,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”

I dance around her and reach the staircase. When I glance over my shoulder, I realize she’s watching me. She looks positively confounded.

Like she’s trying to figure out why a man like Aleks would choose to marry someone like me. It almost makes me want to regale her with the entire tale.

Oh, don’t worry, you sweet summer child—he wasn’t really interested in me. It was a power play between my brother and him. I’m just the useless pawn caught between two men with egos the size of Texas.

Instead of making me feel important—look at me, I’m the centerpiece of a clash of titans!— it makes me feel sad, depressed, inferior. As though I’ve been reduced down to a shiny bauble for powerful men to paw over. A scrap of meat for the alligators.

Shuddering, I turn away from the maid and go down the stairs.

I’m wandering aimlessly down endless halls when I accidentally happen upon the kitchen.

It’s as beautiful as the rest of the house. A tall wall of glass looks down onto an open-concept living area on the floor below. Next to an open pair of lovely French windows sits a wrought-iron table set for tea for two.

Just like the maid said, I don’t see a cook—or anyone else, for that matter. I hold my breath and listen to be sure.

As soon as I confirm I’m alone, I sprint to the massive double door fridge and pull it open.

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” I breathe, taking in the containers of food stuffed into the first three shelves. Has anything ever looked so beautiful?

I pluck out an armful of containers, line them up on the marble-topped island, and open them up one by one.

Lasagna.

Ceviche.

A bunch of little pastries like sugar-coated clouds from heaven.

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