Page 15

Lawns sweep outward on both sides of the drive, broken by old trees and carefully maintained gardens. A fountain stands at the center of a circular courtyard ahead, water spilling from three tiers of carved stone.

And beyond it⁠—

“Oh,” I say. Though, calling it a house seems offensive to houses.

The mansion rises three stories above us, built from pale stone with long rows of dark windows and a broad staircase leading to the entrance. Two wings stretch from the main structure. Ivy climbs part of one wall. Balconies overlook the gardens.

It has the quiet, imposing elegance of a European estate someone has lifted whole and deposited here.

There are cars parked along one side. Expensive cars. Black ones, naturally.

And men. So many men.

“Those are all security?” I ask.

“Some,” Kirill says.

“Some?”

He doesn't elaborate.

I look at Anya. “Your dad really likes privacy.”

“He doesn't like people coming here,” Anya says.

“And yet here I am.”

“You're different,” Anya says.

“We've known each other approximately half an hour.”

“You saved me.”

Apparently, that’s binding under child law.

The SUV stops, and my door opens almost immediately. A different man reaches toward me.

I instinctively lean away.

“I've got her,” Kirill says.

The man steps back without argument.

That’s another thing I notice—everybody listens to Kirill.

Kirill helps me out. My hip is worse now that I have been sitting. A dull ache has become a steady burn, and my shoulder feels increasingly stiff.

Anya scrambles out after me.

The instant her shoes touch the pavement, people start moving. One man speaks to Kirill. Another disappears inside. Someone else crouches in front of Anya and looks her over.

“I’m fine,” Anya complains.

“Your father gave instructions,” the man says.

“Well, I'm fine,” Anya repeats.

There is that tone again. Tiny dictator.