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“Do we have a deal?”
“We accept your terms,” Aleksander says with a nod of his head.
He meets my eyes and reaches his hand out for me to take. With my eyes on him and the two other brothers, I take it.
A sudden thought occurs to me.
If Katarina’s been playing me, I’ve walked straight into a trap.
THIRTY-SIX
KATARINA
“Papa!” I exclaim as I approach his bed.
“Kata!” my mother cries and pulls me into her arms before I can reach my father. “Oh, Kata. We were so worried.”
“I’m alright,” I assure her, forcing myself to tear my eyes off my father and look at her. “He didn’t hurt me.”
This seems to satisfy her for now, and she allows me to move to the bed to look at Papa.
He lies against the pillow, his face pale and completely relaxed, his eyes closed. Lying like this, this man, who is sixty-five and built strong like an ox, suddenly appears smaller. It distresses me because I’ve never seen him this passive.
“Kata,” my mother says, and reaches for me, grasping my wrist with her claw-like hand. “Where is he? Did he come with you?”
I turn to her, my brows furrowing in confusion. “Who? Nikolai?” She nods. “He’s downstairs with the boys.”
“In that case, we have no time to waste,” my father announces, rising from the bed easily.
My eyes widen in disbelief, and I immediately stand, wondering if I’ve just imagined the last minute.
“What’s going on here?” I cry, my heart starting to beat faster, the fear spiking and crashing through me.
I start moving away from the bed as my father stands before me. He grabs my arm in a tight grip, but not so tight as to hurt me. He leans close and whispers into my ear.
“We had to devise a plan for him to bring you to us,” he tells me. “What better way than for you to come see your dying father?”
He takes a tissue from the nearby table and wipes his face to prove his point. I gasp when the paleness is replaced by a pink skin color, followed by faint freckles splattered across his cheeks.
“You must have manipulated him well if he fell for this,” my father spits, sounding amused. “It’ll all be over soon. You’re safe now.”
“What are you doing?” I demand, struggling to break free of his grip, though it only tightens. “You don’t understand anything.”
“No, Katarina, you don’t understand,” my father insists. “But that’s okay. You’re in shock.”
“You’ve probably gotten attached to him during your captivity. It’s not uncommon,” my mother offers.
“I don’t have Stockholm syndrome,” I protest, and yank my wrist out of my father’s grip.
I rub the sore spot, but I don’t give in. They have to understand that things are different now.
“Nikolai has changed,” I try to explain, but even I can hear it sounds like a weak excuse. “I’m not a captive anymore.”
“Okay, let’s say you’re right,” my father challenges, his deep blue eyes darkening. “Then why didn’t you come home?”
“Because it’s not safe,” I reply too quickly.
My father smirks. “It’s not safe,” he repeats in a mocking voice. “It sounds a lot like something a captor would say to the captive.”
