Page 13 of Lord of the Underworld

Oksana is not afraid; she didn’t scream when she woke up to find a monster next to her bed. She still thinks this is a dream.

"People greet me sometimes, they say they knew me when I was a child and I have to play along until I gather enough of their story to know who they are. But you… Everyone knows everything about you and nothing at the same time. Why do I feel like I know your story?"

I won't tell her. Not now. Not until she's under my protection. "I don't know."

She doesn't believe me, and the corners of her mouth droop. The moonlight hits her eyes more clearly, and I can see they're glassy.

"Oksana, did you take any medication tonight?" I lean over her, tilting her chin up to look at her more closely. Her pupils are dilated, swallowing up most of her iris.

"Yes," she says placidly. "It's very hard to sleep. I take medication when I'm here at home, so I'll be quiet and not disturb anyone."

Heading into the bathroom, I find a bottle in the cabinet next to a litter of skin care creams. Temazepam.

Calling Elena Komilova, our family's physician, I'm unsurprised that she picks up on the second ring.

"Mr. Turgenev," she says, clearly having been jolted out of bed for this call, "is there an emergency?"

"Tell me about Temazepam."

"It's one of the benzodiazepines," she says. "It's extremely strong, it slows down the central nervous system, there's a high risk of severe physical dependence, the withdrawal from overuse can be excruciating. Do you need sleep medication? I could-"

"What dose would you give a woman, 1.78 meters tall, 63.5 kilograms?"

"I wouldn't prescribe it, but if I did, maybe 7.5 mg at the highest."

"What would a 30-milligram dose do?"

"It could kill a horse," she says bluntly. "I do not know who you are asking for, but this is extremely risky."

I hang up, eyeing the bottle again. Her father procured these for her. He wouldn't care what havoc it wreaked as long as she was kept quiet.

Putting the pills in my pocket, I head back into the bedroom. She's still sitting up against the headboard, watching me. "Oksana, you need to go back to sleep now." I keep my voice gentle, the tone I'd use with a spooked horse.

There's a little frown wrinkling her brow. "All right."

Helping her settle back against the pillows, I put one on her chest and she wraps her arms around it. I watch her curl into a ball again.

"Sleep now." My voice is rough. My hand moves to her hair, and I run my fingers through it slowly until her breathing evens out and she's back to swimming in the river of her dreams.

I want to marry her now. I want her out of this house.

Her dissociative amnesia is understandable. It was the only way she could protect herself when her father wouldn't.

I've learned that nothing stays buried for long. I'm the man who'll dig it up, cut it into pieces and set it on fire. That approach won't work here. But the first step is getting her out of this house.

Chapter Eight

In which you know things are intense when Vadim is the least complicated of Oksana’s problems.

Oksana…

"We can't!" My mother's voice is loud and strident, and slightly panicked. "Can you imagine what people will say? We can't have this wedding put together in a week. This is the wedding of the season," she wails, her hands flapping wildly, as if to wave away all these silly notions.

"What are we talking about?" I ask, walking into the dining room. Okh, chort. Father is at the table too, and he casts a single baleful glance up at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows.

"The timeline for the wedding has moved up," he says shortly. "You'll be marrying Turgenev in a week."

My head still feels like it's stuffed with cotton candy after my restless night, and it takes me a minute to understand him. "Why so soon?" I ask.