Page 62 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“They’re pearls.”

“I don’t care. I’m not wearing them. I’m not walking into dinner wearing jewelry paid for with Aleks’s blood money.”

“He paid for everything you’re wearing.”

“It’s… different.”

I don’t know how to explain it to her. Wearing a necklace he bought is like wearing a collar. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

Yulia shakes her head, but she relents. And when she steps back, she seems satisfied with my appearance. “You really are beautiful. And I say that objectively.”

I turn back towards my reflection and my heart starts beating a little faster.

I never would have guessed I could pull something like this off, but there’s no denying that’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s not that I don’t look like me—it’s just a level of me that I’ve never achieved before. The best of me.

“Thank you, Yulia,” I mumble. I’ve never felt this… feminine before.”

What I really want to say is, Mia would be so proud right now.

That thought is enough to curdle my good mood. My stomach clenches as I remember where I am. Why I’m here. When I remember that I don’t even know if Mia is okay, or my mother, or Rob…

“Something wrong, my dear?”

I shake my head. “No,” I mumble. “Nothing. What next?”

“This way.” She turns and leaves.

I follow, but I’m focused on putting one stiletto’d heel in front of the other and remaining upright while doing so. Harder than it looks. I’m so absorbed that I don’t notice Yulia has come to a halt, so I slam into her back with a very unladylike grunt.

She’s standing next to my bed, staring up at the wall. At the sketch I finished earlier.

It shows Aleks standing behind Pyotr. The speech bubble next to Aleks’s head reads, “Clip her wings so she cannot fly.”

Pyotr holds a bird cage in his hands. I’m sitting inside of it, gripping the rungs of the cage desperately.

Pyotr’s speech bubble reads, “Yes, Master.”

I’m happy with the sketch, for the most part. Aleks’s angles are mostly right. Sharp and cruel, to go with the savage glint in his eyes and the jaw clenched tight with icy control.

“It’s very good, Olivia,” Yulia murmurs. “You’re a talented artist.” Then she turns around and faces me. “Time to go down.”

I swallow and take her elbow. She guides me to the door. I only trip twice en route.

“There’s no way I can walk in there wearing flip flops, is there?” I ask hopefully.

“Over my dead body.”

Suppressing a grimace, I follow her downstairs and to the back of the house where one of the sitting rooms flows into the garden.

“You’ll be dining on the terrace,” she says. “Make sure those heels stay on the paved paths. You’ll sink in the mud.”

She leads me down a stone path that curves around flower beds and under twisting trees. At the end is a wooden terrace nestled against a glistening pond. A fountain glows blue in the center and vibrant green lily pads float on the surface. It matches my dress flawlessly.

“Wow, this is…”

I trail off when I notice Aleks sitting at the table, waiting for me. Seeing him now, I realize I was wrong: the sketch I etched into the wall of my bedroom looks nothing like him. Superficially, it does, but what’s missing is what’s beneath.

The arrogance.

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