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"Where were you?" she snips, glowering at me. This feels like when we were kids and she'd have to cover for me when I snuck out.
"Not your business," I grumble, hanging my coat on the hook and walking to the sink to wash my hands. My palms feel sweaty and sticky. "I got stuck in the storm, waited it out." I turn the faucet on and let the water scald my hands. The heat stings, but I don't pull away. I deserve discomfort after what I've done.
"Waited it out where?" Natalia asks, and I feel her eyes boring into my back. She's not letting this go. "The storm hit around dinner time, Alana. It's almost noon now. You've been gone for eighteen hours."
My stomach drops. I hadn't realized it was that late. "Does it matter?" I hiss, feeling defensive. "I couldn't get back until the roads cleared this morning."
"And you didn't think to call? To text?" Her voice rises, and I scowl at her to quiet her. "Batya's been pacing since last night. He sent men out this morning. He thought—" She stops, but I know. He thought maybe I ran off, or maybe I got caught in the crossfire of this damn war he's trying to put to bed.
"I'm fine," I say, drying my hands and finally turning to face her. I force my expression to calm. "Lost track of time—phone died. It happens."
Natalia studies me, her dark eyes narrowing. She's always read me and known when I was sneaking out or lying. But she's looking for something specific now, something I'm not showing her. But she doesn't know about Dimitri and she can't know. If she knew I spent the night with a Sokolov, she'd think I've lost my mind or betrayed the family.
"You look different," she says finally. "Your hair's a mess. And you have that look."
"What look?"
"Like you've been crying. Or fighting. Or both." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?"
For a second, I consider telling her about the investigation, the documents, what we're trying to prove. But I can't. Natalia's too engaged—part of the same alliance system. If she knew what I was risking, she'd try to stop me. Or she'd get in the way, and I can't have her blood on my hands.
"No one hurt me," I say, and it's not technically a lie. Dimitri didn't hurt me. He was careful, attentive, constantly checking that I was okay. The opposite of hurt. "I'm just tired. The storm was bad. I didn't sleep much."
She doesn't believe me. I see it in the set of her mouth, her arms crossed like a barrier. But she's worn down by the constant vigilance of living here, waiting for the next attack. She doesn't have energy to fight me right now.
"Go shower," she says, turning back to her chopping. "You smell like smoke. Change before Batya sees you. He's already in a mood."
"Yes, ma'am," I tell her, offering a mock salute with two fingers, then I stomp out of the kitchen. I'll have to deal with my father later, but I have time to prepare myself for that first. Right now, I need to wash the scent of Dimitri's cologne off my skin before someone sniffs him out and nails me.
15
DIMITRI
The holiday gathering at the Morozov estate is hosted by a neutral family that’s managed to stay out of the Sokolov-Volskaya feud for three generations. Their home is decorated for the holidays, the library converted into a party space with a fire roaring and a tree in the corner dripping with gold ornaments. It’s supposed to be a celebration, but it's so tense in here. It’s just an excuse to gather under truce flags and pretend we’re not all carrying weapons under our jackets.
I stand nursing a whiskey in the corner when Maksim finds me. He’s wearing a sweater instead of that black suit he normally wears, and he looks almost relaxed until he sees my face.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Maksim says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Try to smile. The Morozovs have a daughter who’s single, and her father’s looking for alliances.”
“Not interested.”
“You’re not interested in anything lately except—” Maksim stops himself, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “Just be careful. Half the families are here tonight—eyes everywhere.”
I’m about to respond when the door opens and a draft of cold air sweeps in. Alana walks through with Natalia, both of them shaking snow from their hair. Alana wears a red dress that’s darker than wine, and her cheeks are flushed from the cold. She looks around the room, scanning faces, and then she finds mine.
Our eyes lock and for a second, it’s just us, the noise of the party fading to static. Then Alana’s gaze shifts to my right, and her expression changes. It’s subtle, just a tightening around her mouth, but I catch it.
Vera Volkov chooses that moment to appear at my elbow, dripping in diamonds. She’s been hovering all night, finding excuses to refill her drink near wherever I’m standing. Tonight, she’s wearing a strapless gown that shows too much cleavage, and she smells like some expensive, cloying perfume.
Suddenly, Maksim is gone and I'm stuck dealing with this little minx when I’d rather go talk to Alana. “Dimitri,” Vera says, touching my arm with cold fingers. “I was hoping I’d find you alone.”
“You found me,” I say, not looking at her. I’m watching Alana watch us. She says something to Natalia, then moves toward the bar, but her eyes keep flicking back to where Vera’s hand rests on my sleeve.
“You’re not drinking?” Vera observes, stepping closer. Her shoulder brushes my arm. “The Morozovs brought in this case of wine from their vineyard in France. You should try it.”
“I’m good.”
Vera doesn’t take the hint. She launches into a story about her trip to Paris last spring, something about fashion shows and hotels, and I nod in the right places, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Alana accept a drink from the bartender, watching her shoulders set in a rigid line when she glances over and sees Vera laughing at something I didn’t say.
