Page 163 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

I look out across the lake from my perch in the garden. I’ve stayed well clear of it since the confrontation with Aleks three days ago.

But it winks at me from a distance, sunlight glinting off the surface, beckoning me forward.

I ignore it and stare down at my notebook.

The maids don’t just bring in food on trays anymore—they bring fresh paper and sharpened pencils, too. And for all that, I’ve only managed to create a handful of half-assed sketches I’d never in a million years consider submitting to any employer I cared about.

I put my pencil down and study my latest piece. My brain decided to become the space where ideas go to die, so I opted for a landscape. Stupid, boring, obvious. And the art reflects that.

When the gardeners arrived to trim the hedges, I thought I’d take their likenesses. But they’re coming out strangely misshapen, and the hedges they’re trimming look like hunks of unformed clay.

“Where did my talent go?” I whine.

I’m feeling repulsively sorry for myself. The cold doesn’t help matters. My nose is a snot faucet and I have to stop drawing every thirty seconds to hack up a lung.

Talk about kicking a woman while she’s down.

I put my sketchbook down and kick my feet up on the table in the middle of the sitting area. The balcony overhead offers shade.

And, when someone’s hands drape over the railing to alert me to their presence, it offers the perfect hiding place.

I tuck my legs back into the shadows and listen. I expect it to be Aleks, but I hear a woman’s voice instead. Yulia.

“Yes, of course… This is not my first time, darling…”

She’s on the phone with someone. Her tone is friendly, almost flirtatious. But there’s a serious bent to it at the same time. She’s talking business, but trying to keep it light.

“She’s perfect. Pretty and innocent,” she says.

Is she talking about me? I think for a moment in a very uncharacteristic bout of self-centeredness.

“Yes,” she continues. “Sophie Gonzales, that’s right.”

Ah. Apparently not.

The conversation continues for a few more minutes, nothing but some casual chatter and laughter before she wraps it up.

“Of course, darling. I’ll see you there. Ciao.”

A few moments later, Yulia comes down the staircase next to the balcony. When she steps onto the patio below and sees me, she startles.

“Dear Lord, Olivia! How long have you been there?”

“Most of the evening,” I tell her. “Getting some drawing in.”

Her eyes flicker distractedly over my paper. “Oh, that’s nice. How are you recovering from your cold?”

“The maids keep you informed, I see.”

She smiles and takes the vacant seat next to me. “It is my job. I am the head housekeeper, after all.”

“I’d say you’re a little more than that, no?”

“That’s sweet of you to say, darling. Really, though, I don’t mind so much. Especially now that I’ve found some friends outside of this oppressive realm.”

“Wow,” I say. Simple as it may seem, I’m kind of happy that she feels she can be so open and honest with me. “Well, then I’m glad for you.”

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