Page 41 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

I’ve been trapped in here for twenty-four hours. I’m starting to go crazy.

It’s strange, because I’m notorious for hiding out in my apartment for days on end. When I was first living in the city and building my portfolio to apply for freelancing jobs, I once spent eight straight days without setting so much as a toe outside. I survived on Cheetos and Diet Coke like a rat trapped in a gas station.

I might have continued longer in that fashion, if it weren’t for the fact that Mia decided to visit unexpectedly. When she realized I hadn’t been out of my apartment in more than a week, she threw a hissy fit.

She said something Dad used to say to me all the time when he thought I was being too timid or too meek: Living is for the brave.

“I am living,” I’d argued back to her.

She’d just shaken her head. “No. You’re hiding from the world because you’re scared of rejection. That’s not living; it’s surviving. And the difference between those two things is the most important difference there is.”

She dragged me all the way out to Central Park, and little by little, I re-entered society as a functioning adult, with vegetables and sunshine and human interaction, et cetera.

But those words kept ringing in my head. They still do.

Living is for the brave.

“I’m not brave, though,” I whisper. I’m not sure whether I’m talking to Dad or Mia or myself. “That was the problem from the start: I was never brave. And trying to be has only landed me in one mess after another.”

The gardens below seem to stretch out for miles. Moss and creeping vines climb up the red brick walls and wrap around the banisters of my balcony. When I take a deep breath, I can almost imagine I’m at some exclusive luxury resort.

Something knocks around behind me. I spin towards it, heart in my throat.

The room is empty and the door to the hallway is closed. The other two doors—one that leads to a walk-in closet and another that leads to a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment—are also closed.

Nothing moves. I’m still alone.

And then I hear another distant thump. This time, I can tell it’s coming from the hallway.

Another thump. Another.

Footsteps, coming towards the room.

I back up just as the door unlocks. I’m braced against the wall, expecting Aleks, but the person that walks in is a small woman with rust-red hair. She’s carrying a small tray and wearing a soft expression.

“Hello.” She smiles. “You must be Olivia.”

I frown. “Who are you?”

“I’m Yulia,” she says, as though that’s explanation enough.

She’s dressed impeccably. The skirt is ivory white. Cashmere, by the looks of it. Stark black buttons run down the front. Her blouse is black silk. It drapes around her petite figure, highlighting just how small and fine-boned she really is. She must be in her sixties, but at first glance, she looks much younger.

“Are you here to let me go?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, that’s not my call to make.” She gives me another sympathetic smile and glides past me. “Oh, good, you have the balcony doors open. The view of the garden is wonderful from this room.”

She steps out onto the balcony and puts the tray down on the table. “I thought you might appreciate some tea.”

I stare at the plates on the tray. One with finger sandwiches, one with pastries oozing chocolate, and a third bearing an assortment of sugar-dusted cookies.

“Why don’t you sit down?” she suggests. She doesn’t say it rudely, but it isn’t really a question. Or, if it is, it’s the kind of question to which only one answer is allowed: compliance.

I join her on the balcony and sit down stiffly. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Hm. I noticed that your trays from lunch and dinner came back mostly full.”

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