Page 147 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

The phone has been disconnected for twenty-four hours now.

I’ve spent most of that time staring at it, checking it incessantly, hoping that he’ll have a change of heart and restore the connection.

Once my hope well and truly dies, however, I decide to take my art supplies and head down to the edge of the lake to draw.

I haven’t seen Aleks since he left me standing, wet and shivering, by the water.

He saw right through my seduction attempts. And the humiliation was only made worse by the fact that he wasn’t affected in the slightest.

Sure, he looked. Maybe he even admired my body. But he didn’t lose his mind with lust. Seeing me naked was no different than any of the hundreds of other naked women that have waltzed across his path.

At least he didn’t rescind my freedom. I can still move about the compound as I choose. But yesterday was a lesson in the limits of his tolerance.

The more I continue to defy him, the more difficult he can make my life. This time, it was the phone connection. Next time, I could end up locked in my room for good.

The water ripples with the light breeze in the air. I sit under the ash tree, right where he stood yesterday, watching me.

Most artists sitting in front of a view like this would sketch the landscape, but that’s never been how I work best. For me, it’s instinctive. I do my best work when I shut my brain off and stop thinking so damn hard.

I start sketching without thought, allowing my pencil to move across the paper on its own. And eventually, images begin to form.

I’m so involved in my drawing that it takes a few seconds for the strange scraping sound coming from behind me to catch my attention.

I glance up and see a young man pushing a wheelchair down the path. An older man is sitting in it. He’s hunched to one side, so it’s difficult to see his face in the shadows.

Who could that possibly be?

The caretaker catches sight of me as he pulls up to the lake. He’s dressed in a nurse’s white uniform, with a strong jaw and an easy smile.

“Oh, hello,” he says, turning that smile on me. “Didn’t even see you there. We’re not disturbing you, are we?”

I put my drawing aside and get to my feet. I notice the old man’s eyes veer towards me. It’s obvious he can’t move his neck. I move into his line of vision so that he doesn’t have to strain.

“No, you’re not,” I reassure him. “I was just doodling.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Cartoonist,” I correct.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

I smile. “I think so, but it depends on who you ask. Not everyone regards cartoonists as real artists.”

“Well, I’d call you an artist,” he says.

“You haven’t seen my work yet.”

He smiles. “I’d sure love to.”

I grin back, warming to him immediately. Shocking how three seconds of genuine human affection can be so moving when I’ve been starved of it since Aleks took me.

“That’s really sweet of you…?”

“Oh, shoot! Sorry.” He juts out a hand to shake. “I’m Mike,” he says. “And this here is Don Makarova.”

“Don Makarova?” I repeat. “I think you’ve got your wires crossed. Don Makarova is the surly asshole who owns this compound.”

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