Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Sweet, perfect Zoya, with her trusting eyes and her soft voice, and that innocence I’d die a hundred times over to protect. My sweet little angel.
I know she’s not perfect. But she’s perfect for me.
I imagine her going to the Wolf and Moon week after week. Picture her walking in, maybe looking around like she’s expecting to see me. Like she’s still waiting. I know I can’t come. I know I can't reach out. I can’t send her a message.
If I try to contact her now, it’s over. Too risky. Anyone could intercept it. And if that happens, it’s not just my life or everything I’ve built over the years that’s in danger, but hers too. And I won't risk that. I can't. Not even if she betrayed me.
Some part of me knows that, logically, I don't blame her for what she did. Hell, I would've done the same. The message was right there, sitting on the fucking table.
She knew I was ordered to kill her brothers. What else does she know?
Footsteps sound, coming my way. That fucking asshole prison guard lives to torment me. Gets off on it. Loves to watch me bleed.
We'll see how he likes it when I get the fuck out of here. And I will. My lawyers are already working on it.
Yeah, I’ve done enough in Russia to be locked up for three lifetimes. Most of us have. But I will not give up when there's someone out there I need to protect. Someone I still need to love.
My father, he’s as loyal as they come. A good man. Good to me, to my mother, my siblings, and to every last soul in his clan. But even he would lose his goddamn mind if he knew the truth. If anyone knew.
I think back to that night at the Wolf and Moon. The way I took out the men who plotted against me and my father.
That plan? I still can’t tell my father about it. Not now. Not with this war against the Russians heating up.
I stand and move toward the exit. I get one phone call a week in this fucking place. One. I take it.
“Yeah?” I say.
The guy on the other end hesitates. “Sir,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ve got news.”
I clench the phone tighter. “Spit it out. I’ve got thirty fucking seconds before I’m thrown back into hell.”
He swallows hard. I can hear it. His silence is a weight. “If you have something to confess,” I growl, “just know I won’t be able to punish you for a long time.”
“No, sir,” he stammers. “It’s not that. It’s… I’m afraid of what you’ll do when I tell you.”
“Spit. It. The fuck. Out. Or I will reach through this phone and tear your goddamn throat out.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he says, rushing now. “Zoya Kopolova is engaged. To be married.”
And my world just—stops.
Of course she is. Of course she’s fucking engaged. Of course Rafail Kopolov would do this—arrange her future for her like he always planned. She has no reason to say no. She can’t.
This is the next move. This is how it plays out. I’m such a goddamn fool.
I exhale, sharp and bitter. “When?”
“End of the month, sir,” he says.
A week. One goddamn week.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
“I knew you’d want to know,” he adds. “And I know you want to stop it, don’t you, sir?”
How much does he know?
“What is it?” I growl. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“You’ve got one person behind those bars who can help you. You know that, don’t you? One favor left to cash in.”
I nod slowly, though he can’t see it. “Now’s the fucking time,” I agree.
Zoya. Married to another man.
Over.
My.
Dead.
Body.
Chapter 11
ZOYA
My eyes drift to the beautiful white wedding gown hanging from the back of my bedroom door. It glows, almost ethereal in the soft evening light, mocking me with its purity. I’ve been primped and preened within an inch of my existence. Waxed, plucked, exfoliated, scrubbed raw and moisturized back to glowing perfection. There’s not an unwanted hair on my body, not a single one out of place on my head.
My complexion? Spotless. But my eyes betray me. There's a sunken, hollow look in them I can’t quite hide. Since Seamus left, food has been tasteless. My appetite died the day he walked away—no, the day I learned he wasn’t who I thought he was.
I've always been slim, but now I border on fragile. Gaunt. A whisper of who I was.
I sit at my vanity, a small white one from my childhood, painted in fading pastels. I used to sit here and pretend I was a princess. Pretend Prince Charming would rescue me from this world and that I’d wear glass slippers and command a court of talking mice. I knew, even back then, it was just pretend. Because I was already a princess. A Bratva princess. And there are no Prince Charmings in our world.