Page 12 of His Prince
I noticed nothing, apparently.
“The bodyguards’ apartments are over here,” he says, his footsteps sure and steady. I stare down at his leather shoes and my eye catches on something on the tip. Is that blood? I sigh and force my gaze up. I don’t know who this man is, but obviously Mikhail trusts him enough to let him wander around the house without supervision.
“How long have you been working here?” I ask, and George doesn’t even look at me when he responds that he’s been here for ten years.
“Ah, and how do you like it here?”
He purses his lips. “It’s…entertaining.”
That surprises me, nothing here seems fun. But then again, maybe I’m missing something right before my eyes. Maybe it has something to do with the blood on the tip of his shoe. Maybe there’s something more alive in this tomb than meets the eye.
Before I can ask for clarification, we’re at the apartment complex on the other end of the property. It looks like a large dormitory in many ways, but is much more opulent with ornate designs near the windows and the corners. It’s so unlike the main house that I stop walking for a second and consider it.
Why is this so different? This building is lavish and gold, while the main house is drab and gray.
There’s a story there somewhere, one I will have to pull from whoever is willing to tell me, and it doesn’t seem like George is the one to do it.
George scans a card which is hanging on his belt and the glass doors open, leading us inside. I see a few men lounging on couchesreading and smoking in a common area, but Casey is still not within sight. He’s probably still sleeping off the journey and the time difference, which is exactly what I want him to be doing. He needs to rest, someone has to. It surely won’t be me. I won’t be able to rest until I’ve spoken to my husband.
“George, what are you doing here?” one of the men asks, the same one who was on the treadmill earlier. His eyes catch mine, and he grins. “Ah, see you found our little husband.”
My smile falls slightly, unsure if that’s a term of endearment or something else. Are they mocking me? I don’t know. This place is so different from what I’m used to.
“Leave him alone,” another guy says, taking the pot from George and setting it on the counter. “He made us food.”
“I couldn’t find the ingredients for what you requested, so I just made cookies,” I explain, sliding up next to him and setting them on the counter.
The bodyguards descend on it, like starving animals, nearly shoving each other out of the way to get to food. Bowls are passed out and the chili is ladled.
“Does Mikhail not have a cook?” I whisper to George, who takes a step back and brushes at his suit jacket.
“No,” George says. “Nina is the closest to a live-in maid, but she’s not a cook. We fend for ourselves.”
I fold my arms across my chest, watching as the bodyguards shovel food into their mouths.
“If he has them living here, he should be feeding them…and you.”
“Damn right he should,” one of the men says around a mouthful.
I watch them for a moment more and then nod, not sure why I’ve decided to do this, but committing to it anyway.
“I’ll be making breakfast tomorrow, lunch and dinner as well. If I can, it will be Russian dishes. If not, it will be whatever I can conjure up. I’ll notify you of the times it will be ready and it will be up to you to make sure you grab it from the main house.”
They stop and stare at me, some with their mouths wide open.
“What about Mikhail? Does he approve of this?” one of them finally asks, and I shrug, feeling something ugly rear up inside of me.
“He’s not here, is he? And I’m his husband. I can do what I want.”
One of them nods, and then the rest, leaving them all standing there looking like bobbleheads. A moment later though, they’re back to eating, forgetting I exist.
“Thank you for your help,” I tell George, before pulling my phone out and staring down at the empty screen. Mikhail still hasn’t responded.
“You’re welcome,” he says, giving me a clipped nod and heading out.
I turn and follow after him, finding that I really have no one to talk to, to give me insight into what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Hey, George. Wait up,” I say, meeting his long strides. “I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”