Page 65 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“You better,” I say. “Otherwise—”

“Off with my head?”

“Something like that.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll bring her down to meet you in half an hour.”

He nods again and steps down the stairs, fidgeting with his tie the whole time. As soon as he’s gone, a maid rounds the corner with a selection of dresses thrown over her arm.

“Give them to me,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”

When I walk into her room, Olivia doesn’t so much as glance my way. I drop the dresses down on the bed and walk over to her. She jerks when I touch her shoulder.

“You’ll need to get ready soon. The funeral starts in an hour. I brought you clothes.”

She follows where I’m pointing towards the bed and sees the dresses lying there, preserved like jeweled specimens in clear plastic wrap.

She stares at me for a moment and then rises to her feet. She picks up the dresses one by one, fingers tentative, breath slow.

I watch her from behind. She’s wearing a silk robe with cherry blossom details all over the delicate fabric. It clings to her body, highlighting just how thin she is. You’d never be able to guess she’s carrying a baby inside her.

She pulls at the knot at the front of her robe and it slides off her shoulders.

She’s wearing only white cotton panties underneath. I try not to be distracted as she turns to me. Her breasts stand high, the nipples pointed.

“Will you choose one for me?” she mumbles. “Any one of them will do.”

I decide on the Valentino. It has a modest neckline and a black leather belt cinched at the waist. She’ll look appropriate, but tough.

I strip it out of the plastic covering and offer up the open neckline for Olivia to slip her feet into. When she steps inside, I pull it up her smooth body. I slip the straps over her fragile shoulders and she turns in my arms automatically.

I take a moment to admire the perfect curvature of her spine. The way her skin seems to prickle with heat wherever I touch her.

Then I pull the zipper up and clip the belt in place.

“How do I look?”

I step back and give her a critical survey. “Perfect,” I rasp. “You look perfect.”

She nods and disappears into the walk-in closet. She picks a pair of black pumps with a modest heel and then walks back to me with them dangling from her fingers.

“I guess I’m ready to go,” she says.

“Not yet,” I say. I take the veil from on top of the bedspread and settle it over Olivia’s head. Her eyelashes flutter behind the sheer fabric. “There. Now, you’re ready. Battle armor in place.”

She offers me a sad smile. “I wish you were coming with me.”

“I’m never far, Olivia.”

We saw the notice of the funeral posted in the newspaper the day after the chaos at the hospital. I assigned Demyan and a security detail to escort Olivia there, so she could watch her mother laid to rest at her father’s side. It goes without saying that my presence is unwelcome.

I lead her out of the room and down the stairs. The whole time, she clutches my arm as though she’s afraid she’ll fall or float away or both. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Demyan is standing by the front door waiting for her.

“Damn, girl,” he says. “You look like a movie star.”

She looks alarmed for a moment. “Is it too much? I want to look like myself.” Her gaze flits to me, worried.

“Do you feel like yourself?” I ask.

She thinks, then nods.

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