Page 23 of Lord of the Underworld

"That's because she reminds you of you," Rose says. "I like her too, for the same reason. You're taking her home?"

"Since her parents just allowed her out of Poor Life Choices jail, I think stashing her at my place to sober up is a good idea," I say.

"You know where we are," Caroline says. "We've exchanged numbers. You cannot escape us, so embrace the cousinhood. Anything you need to get through the next forty-eight hours, you call us."

Getting Anka up to my room is no problem, both of us are chatty drunks, so we have to thoroughly rehash my impromptu bachelorette party, lying in bed and cackling quietly, until we both fall asleep.

The sleep meds I take when at home to keep me quiet haven't knocked me out as hard these last few nights, which makes me worry I'm developing a tolerance to them. In the past, when I'd taken my meds I'd usually slept heavily. If I dreamt, I don't remember.

These last couple of nights, I've been dreaming of Vadim.

Last night, I dreamt I was standing in front of the painting again, The Abduction of Proserpine. This time, we were Hades and Persephone. Vadim's muscled arms held me tightly to his chest as his pitch-black stallions thundered down into the Underworld. I'd woken up gasping, my hand wedged between my thighs, my undies soaking wet.

Tonight's dream is gentler. Vadim is looking at me, not smiling, because I don't think he ever has. His blue eyes though, are warmer. Just slightly less than the polar shade that I remember. He runs one calloused fingertip very carefully down my arm. I realize he's tracing the scar I'd gotten.... I don't know how, exactly. I came back from my kidnapping with it.

"The scar's still there," he murmurs. "You were very brave."

"Why are you so kind to me?" I barely whisper, my lips just shaping the words. "Everyone else thinks you're a monster."

Dream Vadim places his thumb against my lips, pressing gently. His rough hand cups my cheek, just for a moment before I surge out of my dream and sit up, heart pounding, looking around the room. Everything is in place. The pillow on the chair next to my bed plumped just so. The low light of the lamp shining against the far wall. But the air feels different. Displaced, like something had been there, taking up space and is now gone.

Sliding out of bed without waking Anka, who is snoring happily, I stumble into the bathroom. Everything's the same here, too. Little bottles of lotion and cosmetics lined up in tidy rows. The smell of my peppermint soap.

There is something else. Something burnt. I take a deep breath, and it reminds me of Vadim the night we met, when he leaned in close to me. Burnt amber. Worn leather. The scent of something… how dark would smell if it was a scent.

That's ridiculous. Vadim hasn't been in my bedroom. Well, except for a couple of the sex dreams I've been having. I smother a groan. He had featured prominently in both of them.

Walking back into the bedroom, I still can't find anything out of place, so I crawl back into bed with Anka and I'm asleep in minutes.

The next morning, Anka consumes copious amounts of coffee and piroskis and heads back home, still looking a bit red-eyed.

The house is blissfully quiet; Father and my brothers are all gone. Mother is in her office, a pretty room, with furniture covered in floral prints. It's attached to the greenhouse behind the house so she can always have fresh flowers.

"Morning, mat'," I say, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "I shall ask you yet again. Is there anything I can do to make your life easier?"

"And yet again," she says, making rapid corrections on a seating chart, "I will tell you there is nothing."

"I'll be in my room if you change your mind," I say.

"Moy dóchenka."

"Yes?"

She looks up from her paperwork, she looks frailer this morning. "Did you have fun last night with the Morozova girls?"

"I did, thank you for setting me free from the chilly embrace of Mr. Maurice."

That gets a little chuckle from her, which is nice. Mother doesn't laugh much. "I'm glad, you don't get much time out with friends here in Moscow. I know…" she hesitates. "I know it's harder here." The fine lines on her face are deeper these days and I feel a surge of tenderness. Balancing my father and her social requirements must be exhausting.

"I'm good, mat', thank you." I want to give her another kiss, but she's already back to her seating chart.

Safely back in my bedroom, I pull out my second phone and call my forger to check on the documents for the Rossi family.

"They're ready," Montel says. "Spotless little bastards. They'll stand up to any scrutiny."

"Thank you," I say fervently. "I'll figure out some kind of a bonus."

We talk business for a while, about the new international screening requirements and updated passports needed for another family. Montel complains about the poor availability of takeout at his latest location.