Page 18 of Then We Shatter

I grin at him, grateful that now he has opened his mouth, it’s to speak up for me. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“We have two funerals to arrange first,” Malachy reminds us. “And families to support.”

“Then let’s get to work,” Dad says. “Now, fuck off the lot of you.”

I’m out the door first, grabbing an apple from a fruit bowl in the main foyer on my way back through the house. I’m taking my first bite when Tiernan slaps me hard on the back, almost making me choke.

“Lucky bastard. You always get the good jobs,” he says with more than a hint of envy.

“Just watch yourself,” Ronan adds, appearing on my other side. “Kittens have claws.”

I grip the apple hard and juice drips over my white knuckles. “Don’t call her that.”

“But you were going to call her kitten,” Tiernan answers for him. “We all heard you in Da’s office stumble over her name.”

As we step into the desert-dry heat and look out from our spot high up on the Ridges, there’s a haze over the valley, dulling the sharp edges of the Strip. I can’t tell my brothers why Katarina doesn’t like the nickname, or why it aggravates me on her behalf. Not when Malachy is lurking behind us, taking fucking notes.

“Killi and Kitten,” Ronan repeats. “It’s cute.”

“You two arse wipes had better make yourself scarce if you don’t want me to drown you,” I warn, deliberately taking a path that brings us nearer to the edge of the pool.

“But we want to hear all the–” Tiernan starts.

“We’ll see you later,” Ronan interrupts, pulling his brother away from the danger zone.

“They’re right about her having claws,” Malachy says, replacing Ronan at my side and positioning himself as the devil on my shoulder. “And she sunk them into you far too easily. I bet the Bratva taught her how to fuck a man’s brains out and leave nothing but–”

I swivel fast, the apple disintegrating in my fist as both meet the soft cartilage of Malachy’s nose. He flies backwards into the pool with a yell of frustration and humiliation. Not waiting for his response, I carry on towards the guest villa.

“That was a waste of a really nice apple,” I complain to the only brother left standing.

“There’ll be plenty more apples,” Lorcan says philosophically. “But there’s only one Katarina Barkov.”

I slow my pace as we cross the courtyard. If it was any other brother, I’d assume he was being sarcastic. Lorcan is deadly serious.

“I get it,” he explains. “She might act like a Barkov, but she’s not.”

I’m expecting him to say more, but that’s the sum total of his observation, and he’s not wrong.

Chapter 7

Katarina

Now

My hair slaps across my face as we hurry across the grass to escape the hot air being whipped up by helicopter blades. I wasn’t prepared for the dramatic shift in climate, even with a stopover in Singapore. The icy air in Siberia had taken my breath away, but this cloying heat two days later is making it just as hard to catch my breath.

The cobalt blue sky we’ve fallen from is clear, but there are storm clouds on the horizon where the sun will soon be setting. There are only three more days until I marry a man I’ve yet to meet, and as I check out the two figures waiting for us beside a pair of golf carts, it’s clear I’ll be waiting a little longer. One is a middle-aged woman in a corporate pant suit and the other is a man in his twenties, sporting a polo shirt. Both have embroidered motifs on their uniforms. We’re being greeted by staff.

“Welcome to Blackwater Rock. I’m Emily, the housekeeper,” the woman says. Her accent is English and if she notices my uncle bristle at the perceived slight from not being met by our host, she doesn’t let it show.

I stifle a yawn. It could be jet lag or the humidity. Or it could be the overpowering scent of Vasili’s cologne contaminating the air. He’d kept us waiting while he changed into a perfectly tailored suit before we boarded the helicopter that took us on the final leg of our journey. I’d still be in leggings and a sweatshirt if my uncle hadn’t made me change into a tight-fitting dress meant to impress my future husband, wherever the fuck he is. And wherever the fuck we are.

When Vasili said the wedding would take place on Eric’s private island in the South Pacific, I’d imagined a beautiful villa surrounded by white, sandy beaches, a turquoise sea and swaying palm trees. Blackwater Rock is none of those things. Eric’s home is a fortress built on ancient volcanic overspill and protected by impenetrable jungle and steep cliffs currently being lashed by dark, angry waves. At first glance, it appears my chances of escaping are no better than they were back in Russia.

I know virtually nothing about Eric Peterson other than he’s a fifty-two-year-old billionaire with a digital footprint that’s even less discoverable than the Griffins’. The only photo I’d found when my uncle first touted his name was a vague figure on a yacht that had been taken with a long-range lens. Not helpful.

“I’m here to help you settle in,” Emily continues. “Can we take your bags?”