Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,37

my lungs, clean and fragrant, giving me an instant high. I’d gotten used to the dusty dankness of the house. Now I’m intoxicated by the breeze on my face, and the grass under my feet. I strip off my socks so I can walk around barefoot, feeling the springy earth against my arches and toes.

I’m inside a walled garden. I’ve been to famous gardens in England and France. Even they couldn’t match the pure density of this place. It’s thickly green, everywhere I look. The stone walls are covered in ivy and clematis, the flowerbeds carpeted with blooms. Shaggy hedges, rose bushes, and maple trees crowd together, with barely space to walk down the cobbled paths. I hear water flowing over fountains. I know from the top-down view out my window that this garden contains dozens of sculptures and baths, but they’re hidden in the labyrinth of plants.

I want to spend the rest of the day out here, drowning in the scent of the flowers and the droning of the bees.

But first I want to grab a book out of the library, so I can read outdoors.

So I head back inside, still barefoot because I abandoned my socks on the lawn.

I take a wrong turn by the kitchen and have to double back, looking for the large library on the ground floor. As I’m passing by the billiards room, I hear the low, clipped voice of the Beast. He’s talking to Jonas, speaking in Polish. They’re sprinkling in words and phrases in English, as people will do when a sentence is easier to say in one language than another.

“Jak długo będziesz czekać?” Jonas says.

“Tak długo, jak mi się podoba,” the Beast replies lazily.

“Mogą śledzić cię tutaj.”

“The fuck they will!” Mikolaj snaps, in English. He lets out a torrent of Polish in which he is clearly telling Jonas off.

I creep closer to the doorway. I can’t understand most of what they’re saying, but Mikolaj sounds so pissed that I’m almost certain he’s talking about my family.

“Dobrze szefie,” Jonas says, chastened. “Przykro mi.”

I know what that means. Okay, boss. My apologies.

Then Jonas says, “What about the Russians? Oni chcą spotkania.”

The Beast starts to answer. He says a couple of sentences in Polish, then pauses abruptly.

In English, he says, “I’m not familiar with Irish customs, but I think listening in doorways is considered rude worldwide.”

It feels like the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Both Mikolaj and Jonas stand silent in the billiards room. They’re waiting for me to answer, or to show myself.

I’d like to fade into the wallpaper instead. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.

I swallow hard, and step into the doorway where they can see me.

“You know I can tell exactly where you are in the house at all times,” the Beast says, fixing me with his malevolent stare.

Right. This damned ankle monitor. I hate how it’s always clattering around on my foot, digging into me when I try to sleep.

Jonas seems caught between his desire to smirk at me, and his discomfort at the dressing-down he just got from Mikolaj. His smug nature wins out. Cocking an eyebrow, he says, “Only been out of your room a few hours, and you’re already getting in trouble. I told Miko we shouldn’t let you out.”

Mikolaj throws Jonas a sharp look, both annoyed at the intimation that his subordinate can “tell him” anything, and irritated by the use of the nickname.

I wonder how he’d like my name for him.

Who am I kidding? He’d probably love it.

“What are you hoping to hear?” the Beast says mockingly. “The codes to my bank accounts? The password to the security system? I could tell you every secret I know, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

I can feel my cheeks flushing pink.

He’s right. I’m completely powerless. That’s why he’s letting me wander around his house.

“I’m surprised your parents didn’t train you,” Mikolaj says, drawing closer to me. He looks down at me, his face twisted with disdain. “They should have raised a wolf, not a little lamb. It almost seems cruel.”

Even though I know it’s intentional, and even though I’m fighting against it, his words burrow into my brain like barbs.

My brother Callum knows how to fight, how to shoot a gun. He was taught to be a leader, a planner, an executor.

I was sent to dance classes and tennis lessons.

Why didn’t my parents consider what might happen if I ever left the safety of their arms? They brought me into a dark and dangerous world,