Page 45 of Beautiful Ruin

Sofia walks beside me, still clutching her bag to her chest as confusion flickers clearly across her face the closer we reach Ivan’s office. She still thinks Ivan will be irritated but ultimately tolerant, and I almost envy that level of innocence.

Ivan is sitting behind his desk when we finally step inside his office. His dark eyes find Sofia first, and though they do not soften like usual, they do not hold the same cold fury I know will soon be turned on me.

“Sofia. Are you all right? Did the outing clear your head?”

She nods, offering a small smile. “It did help. Rowan was a big help. Thank you for letting us spend the day in town.”

Ivan’s gaze flicks toward me briefly before settling back on her again. “I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything else I can do for you before dinner?”

She shakes her head.

He inclines his own at her. “We’ll speak later, then. I will see you in a few hours.”

Sofia hesitates at the clear dismissal. Her eyes flick to me with concern that makes my chest tighten. It is small, so small, no one else in the room might notice, but I do. I see the way her fingers tighten around the bag in her hand. How her mouth presses together as if she is biting back a protest. The way she searches my face, looking for some sign of what is coming, or worse, some sign that I want her to stay.

I swallow around the lump in my throat.

That is the last thing I want.

As flattered as I am to see her outwardly concerned about me, the last thing I want is for her to stay and witness what is about to come. Ivan’s anger has never been something I wanted spectators for. Not even when I was younger and had less experience handling it.

If she stays, she’ll see too much.

She’ll see the boy still buried under the blade.

I keep my eyes forward and my expression blank. It takes her nearly another minute before she steps away from my side and follows the two guards waiting for her by the door. As soon as it clicks shut behind her, the atmosphere inside the room changes instantly.

The study contracts around us. The fire in the grate pops once, the sound too loud in the silence. Ivan’s desk sits between us, polished and immense, its surface neat except for the documents he had been reviewing before we arrived with a single black fountain pen resting parallel to the papers.

He rises slowly from his chair.

A small tightening near the eyes, and the faint drag at the corner of his mouth tells me his stitches are tugging at his skin uncomfortably. He ignores it and takes in a slow breath while he stares at me.

It’s a long time before he speaks again.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” he says quietly.

I don’t deny it. “I did.”

Ivan’s voice hardens at the admission. “You took the one person whose safety I entrusted to you with into the city without my permission after an attempt on my life. After I explicitly told you she is to stay on the property because of the target on her back. Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

I meet his eyes. “Yes.”

I know exactly what could have happened.

Every possibility circled my brain the moment I realized she was in my back seat. I could have shot her. We could have been followed. The coroner’s office could have been watched. Someone could have seen her face, recognized her name, decided Ivan’s hidden niece was worth the price tag of retribution. Moscow could have opened its mouth and swallowed her before I had the chance to put myself between her and its teeth.

I know.

That’s the torment of it.

I knew, and I kept driving anyway.

He steps around the desk, then. “You risked her life by doing something so reckless. You risked everything I’ve built to protect her.”

For one second, guilt flashes hotly through my veins, and it almost pulls me back into line. Because I know that grief is real. I know he loved Irena. Whatever else he has hidden away, whatever sins he has tried to bury, the pain at her death is not theater.

But real pain can still be used to bury real truth.