Page 48 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

I sit back on the carpeted floor and stare at the face I’ve scraped into the pristine white wall next to the bed.

Pyotr.That was his name.

The jerk who shoved me into that jeep. The same jerk who carried me into this house.

Even as he manhandled me, his features caught my eye. His broad, flat nose that accentuated the sharpness of his jaw. It’s a half-assed sketch crudely scratched into the paint, but I know I nailed his appearance. The eyes are just as dead and devoid of original thought as they were in person.

He’s merely a robot, following the instructions of a monster.

I take the blunt point of the pencil I found earlier and move on to the mural of his master. He’s standing behind the dumb robot goon, but he’s still bigger, his presence suffocating and intoxicating and impossible to ignore.

I get so lost in my world that I don’t even notice the door open. Not until I see a shadow fall over my drawing do I realize that I’m no longer alone.

“Jesus!” I yelp, jerking back.

Yulia looks at me with an amused expression as she takes in my drawing. “Well, well… that’s an interesting way to deface my walls.”

My heart starts beating a little faster, but I try hard to shove down the fear. They’ve abducted me and trapped me in this room for almost two days. Why shouldn’t I deface whatever the hell I want? Tit for extremely-not-equal tat, right?

“There was a pencil in the desk drawer,” I explain. “But no paper.”

“So you decided to go for the walls?”

I blink. “Sure looks that way.”

She smiles. “Fair enough.” She moves to sit down on the edge of the bed just next to me and examines my drawing. “Is that… Pyotr?”

“I prefer to think of him as Pyotr 3000, Cyborg Extraordinaire.”

“The likeness is brilliant. And who is the figure behind him?”

The drawing is incomplete. I haven’t figured out how I want to capture the harsh lines and shadows of him just yet. For now, he’s only a silhouette.

“The master,” I say. “Or maybe I’ll call him ‘The Monster.’”

Yulia raises her eyebrows. “Also known as my son?”

“The fact that you made that connection speaks volumes.”

She gives me an amused glance. “Is that a speech bubble over Pyotr’s head?”

“Yes. But I haven’t decided what he’s going to say yet.”

“I imagine it won’t be flattering.”

“Probably not.”

“Maybe he was right about you,” she mutters under her breath.

I roll my eyes. “What did His Highness say about me now?”

She pushes herself off the bed and heads for the door. “You can ask him yourself. He’s granting you an audience.”

I drop my pencil and get to my feet. “What? He is? When?”

“Now,” Yulia says. “Come with me.”

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