Page 171 of The Harbinger

“Why?”

“I like the weather.”

He laughed, and a tingle skittered down my back like a thousand tiny legs marching across my skin. “You don’t like the weather at home?” He cocked his head. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

“Portland,” I said, tossing up a random location in the United States.

“It’s cold there, no? Lots of rain?”

I nodded, my heart beating against my chest, moving the dictionary I gripped. “Much like here, lately.”

“What’s your relationship to my son?” His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dark and ominous.

“Honestly?”

He nodded. “Preferably.”

I shrugged and hugged the dictionary a little tighter. “I haven’t a clue.”

He sighed, his gaze flicking down. He leaned forward and reached for me, and I squealed, jerking my legs to the side.

Ruslan stared at me as though I’d grown two heads, his hand still outreached in the same position, then snatched the book I’d tucked beside me, bringing it to his lap.

“Sobraniye poslednikh slov.A Collection of Last Words. Did you read it?”

My legs remained tense, yet I eased them back into a rested position, my feet touching the floor. “I tried.”

“Allow me.” As he thumbed through the book, his fingers glided over the worn pages with delicate precision, treating the ancient parchment with the utmost care. “Ah, here we are,” he said, sitting back in his chair and laying his hand possessively on the black leather cover. “December 31st,” he paused, his piercing gaze meeting mine. “Only three weeks away.”

My heart quickened, and the ache to have Sacha by my side grew stronger. “I should find Sacha,” I muttered, rising from my chair.

“Sit down,” his commanding voice boomed. “We’re only having a chat.”

I glanced at the closed bedroom door before reluctantly sitting back down, the chair like molten lava beneath me.

“Now listen to this one,” he began, his voice taking on a menacing tone. “I’m not ready. Mama forgive me. Papa,please.”

The victim’s pleas echoed in my mind, the horror of it all slapping me in the face.

“I was just a boy when I first witnessed it, but it stayed with me like a haunting melody I could never forget. Not that I wanted to. It was beautiful to witness.”

“That’s terrible,” I whispered.

“It’s reality.” He flicked his hand in his lap, then placed it back over the book. “And I pray it will become yours soon.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. The mere thought of sitting with him sent my heart racing and my palms slicking with sweat. I leaped out of my seat, my legs like Jell-O beneath me. He, however, remained unfazed, his movements steady as he placed the book on the side table with nonchalant ease.

The door burst open with a loud bang, and Sacha strode in, his tall, broad frame filling the doorway, an aura of anger emanating around him. His dark eyes, swimming with wrath, locked onto his father, who slowly rose from his chair, his expression unreadable.

The tension in the air hung thick and oppressive. “What’s wrong, Sacha?” he asked, his voice calm and measured.

“Leave.” Sacha pointed towards the door.

A small crowd gathered at the opening, and Catherine’s face was front and center. Katya stood off to the side, still peeking in as Sacha stood toe to toe with his father.

“I was only helping her read The Last Words.”

Sacha gripped his father’s lapels, and a gasp sounded behind him. “She’s not who you want her to be.”