Page 11 of His Prince
That needs to be rectified.
Since I can’t find my husband, I guess I’m the one to do it.
So, I get to work, putting on a wrinkled apron and pulling out my phone. I look up the food the bodyguards had mentioned, misspelling each far too many times. But I realize with each one that I don’t have all the ingredients, so I settle for baking chocolate chip cookies and making a note to make sure I have all the items for Russian dishes in the future.
While those go into the oven to bake, I also get started on dinner. I rummage through the freezer and pantry, finding all the ingredients I can use to make chili.
I don’t know who feeds these people. But they obviously don’t have an Agatha here to dote on everyone, to feed them until their stomachs nearly explode.
So I guess it has to be me. I don’t mind doing it. At the moment, it’s keeping my mind off things. Like the ache in my ass and the fact Mikhail is still nowhere to be found.
And I don’t know where he went.
He fucked me on our wedding night and left.
I stir the pot a little too harshly, some splashing out onto the apron, a drop hitting my hand and making me wince.
If I keep this up, I’m going to end up throwing the pot across the room.
I don’t even know if these tracksuit-wearing bodyguards even like chili, for fuck’s sake.
I just need to speak to him. If Mikhail isn’t in this for me, if he’s just using me, then I’ll make him fucking pay. But right now, we need to talk. If only I could find him.
The timer goes off and I pull the cookies from the oven, letting them cool for a few minutes. I lean my hip against the counter and text Mikhail, asking him where he is and if we can meet to talk.
It goes unanswered, making my eyes water and my blood boil.An interesting mix of emotions swirls around inside of me as I plate the cookies in a container and cover the pot of chili. I have no idea how I’m going to get this all to them—didn’t quite think that through.
As I search for someone, anyone to help me, my frustration grows by the minute, almost spilling over. Suddenly I see someone pass by, a large, looming figure wearing a suit.
I’m not even cowed.
“Hey,” I say loudly, making the man stop and turn toward me. He blinks, his shirt buttoned up and ironed immaculately, the hair on his head perfectly coifed. His eyes are almost black, matching the color of his suit. I have no idea who this is, but I do know one thing. He’s helping me carry the food to the bodyguards.
“I need your help. Please.”
He blinks at me again, but moves toward me when I hand him the oven mitts and the pot of chili.
“I’m bringing this to the bodyguards. Do you know how to get to their…” I don’t know what to call it. “…house?”
“Yes,” he finally says.
“Thank you,” I say, watching as he adjusts the lid and places the mitts on his hands. He clears his throat and then lifts it carefully before walking out of the kitchen.
“What’s your name?” I ask, smiling softly, trying to calm myself as I follow him through the house, carrying the container of cookies. I won’t take my frustration and anger out on him. He didn’t lie to me for months and leave me on my wedding night.
“Georgiy. But you can call me George,” he replies, his accent thick and deep.
“Hi, George. I’m Angel.”
“I know who you are. Mr. Ivanov told us about you.”
“Oh, did he?” I ask. “What did he say?”
“Just that you would be returning with him.”
“Nothing else?”
“No,” he says as he pushes his way outside. I follow him, thespring air slightly colder here in Upstate New York than I’m used to back in California. A shiver runs through me, but there’s no one around to notice. The outside is just as barren as the house. I don’t even hear any birds chirping. I don’t know how I missed this on my way in, but I must have just been so caught up in Mikhail that I didn’t notice it.