Page 180 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

But, little by little, it’s easing.

Then, just as I’m finding a little bit of light, my door opens and Aleks is standing there. His shadow arrows across the floor towards us like a silent threat.

Yulia and I both jump to standing at the same time. She looks alarmed by the incensed look on his face.

“Aleksandr, darl—”

“I need a word with Olivia. Alone.”

She glances towards me. “She’s not feeling very well. Maybe this isn’t the best time.”

I give her a grateful look, but she isn’t looking at me anymore. I don’t blame her. There’s something terrifying about him right now. His dark eyes burn, despite his outward calm. I can’t wrench my gaze away.

“Leave us,” he snaps.

Yulia turns to me apologetically. “Rest up, Olivia.”

She’s heading to the door, but as she passes by her son, he leans towards her and adds, “Wait for me in my office. I’ll be there shortly.”

“What’s wrong?” Yulia asks.

“I have something I need to tell you.”

She looks like she wants to request more of an explanation, but he dismisses her with a jerk of his head. She throws me one last backward glance and then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

“Was that necessary?” I demand. “You don’t have to be so cold with her.”

“Best friends now, are you?”

I wonder where he gets off turning the tables on me. I’m the one who should be staring at him with that enraged look in my eye. He should be the one cowering in the shadows.

But I can’t even picture it. This man was not made to cower. This man was meant to control, dominate, lead. Nothing that happens will ever change his nature.

“What do you want?”

“What’s this about you being sick?” he asks.

“Why do you even care?”

Something flits across his face. Something alien that I’m not meant to see. Like the flash of a shooting star in the middle of an empty black sky.

“I don’t want you puking all over my tiles,” he mutters.

He says it with his usual disdain. But for the first time since I’ve met him, I don’t believe him. It sounds… brittle. At risk of crumbling altogether and revealing something living and breathing beneath it.

“Your tiles are fine.”

He strides forward and presses one huge hand to my forehead with a frown on his face.

I slap him away. “What are you doing?”

“Checking for fever.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look pale.”

“Funny you should point that out—I had a rough morning.”

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