Free of the lies and nightmares.
Another second…
My eyes darted to Tatiana. She leaned against Dmitri, eyes wide in concern.
Some primal part of me growled at the sight of her, furious she was so close to Konstantin, furious she was considered innocent and harmless.
Another second…
When the sound of my bone cracking echoed throughout the vault, it had sounded like I had stepped onto a twig.
Even amongst the agony, I remembered thinking: I’ll kill you for this, husband.
Another second…
Konstantin’s hair was sticking to his forehead again. My hands twitched as I ached to comb it back.
Another second…
My brain hadn’t settled yet from being used so much. I had the same adrenaline feeling that I had felt when writing that article. Like all the knowledge in my brain was churning around and around, waiting to be picked and used.
Another sec—
“His pulse has quickened,” the doctor said. “His heart is now beating at a normal rate.”
I bowed my head into my hands and breathed.
From the corner of my eye, between my fingers, I saw anger flash over Tatiana’s face. The look of a woman who had not gotten what she wanted.
26
Elena Falcone
Ten days.
Ten days had passed since Konstantin had begun his path to recovery. At first, he hadn’t woken often, his body working hard to try and subdue the symptoms. By day four, he woke up of bursts of clarity, asking for water or something to eat, before falling back into unconsciousness.
I sat beside him the entire time, a permanent shape of me now worn into the chair. I ate only for sustenance and showered out of need, but every other second of the day, I was with Konstantin. I read to him, talked to him, slept beside him. Whenever he moved, I was alert, watching and waiting.
Most of the days passed in a blur, nothing more than hours of light and darkness where Konstantin was still unwell.
My voice carried around the room, the Russian fairy tale falling easily from my lips. The story followed the youngest son of a king who had shot an arrow to find his true love. The arrow had landed by a frog, who was cursed by some evil Russian cryptid. I wasn’t sure what the warning was, but I was—
“Elena?”
I snapped my head up.
Konstantin’s head was turned towards me, his eyes bright with energy. A soft smile graced his features.
“Are you okay?” I put the book aside. “Do you need some water?”
“No, no,” he breathed. “Just sit with me.”
I didn’t move, scanning his expression. Full color hadn’t returned to his face, but he did look the best he had in over a week.
“Lyubimaya,” he repeated, almost warningly.
I crossed my arms. “I’m not certain you’re fine.”
Konstantin twisted his head to the book. “Were you reading in Russian?”
“I was.”
His light-brown eyes sparked in delight. “Since when do you read and speak Russian?”
“Since last week. You would’ve known had you not gotten yourself poisoned,” I said sharply. The question of who had done it hung in the air, but I couldn’t make myself voice it aloud.
“I was wondering why my head feels a bit sore,” Konstantin mused. “Sit down, Elena. You look exhausted.”
I reluctantly resumed my position. “Are you sure?”
“I asked your don if I could marry you two years ago.”
The sentence was said so abruptly that it took me a few minutes to grasp the full meaning behind his words.
I felt my features furrow. “Kon, I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”
Konstantin pulled himself up, refusing more pillows. He looked like he was going to get out of bed, but that’s where I drew the line, sending him a warning glare.
He smiled faintly. “So worried, lyubimaya.” He rolled his neck, cracking the joints. “But it is true. I asked for your hand in marriage before you were betrothed to Falcone. I was denied, of course.”
I rubbed my forehead. Surely, he was lying, but why would Konstantin lie about something like this? “We didn’t even know each other,” I told him. “Why would you want to marry me?”
“You didn’t know me, but I knew you.” Konstantin turned his head to me, our gazes meeting. An intensity had gripped his features, holding us both hostage in the moment. “I knew you, Helen A. Strindberg.”
My lips parted.
Tools of men are not inherently evil. It is how they are used.
Memories of researching and typing flashed in my mind’s eyes. I had been denied permission to go to college, so in rebellion, I had written and published a journal article. It had been