Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,79

that I should be, but all I seem to feel is sick confusion.

“Did you change your mind?” I say.

“About what?”

I look down at my knees, oddly embarrassed.

“About . . . wanting to marry me.”

“No.”

My heart revives, soaring upward again.

Now I do see the conflict on his face. The struggle between what he’s doing, and what he actually wants to do.

“Why are you sending me back, then?” I ask him.

“A show of good faith,” he says. “I’ll send you home. I’ll set up a meeting with your father. We can meet to negotiate. And if you want to come back to me, after that . . .”

He holds up his hand to stop me speaking.

“Don’t say anything now, Nessa. Go home. Then see how you feel.”

He thinks I only agreed last night because I’ve been trapped in his house. Because it was the only way to keep him from murdering my family.

There’s so much more to it than that. But . . . maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s impossible to think clearly when I’m here, a prisoner, with Mikolaj right in front of my face. What he’s offering me is impossibly generous—freedom and a clear head.

That’s why his men are angry. He’s giving up their bargaining piece and getting nothing in return.

“Pack up whatever you want to take,” Mikolaj says. “Marcel will drive you home.”

I feel like I’m made of paper, and I’m tearing in two.

The desire to see my family again is bright and strong.

But I don’t actually want to leave.

Last night was the most incredible experience of my life. It was dark and wild and pleasurable beyond anything I’d ever imagined.

It’s like mainlining heroin. In this house, I’m always intoxicated. I have to get away from it before I can look at anything with a sober mind.

So, I nod, without really wanting to.

“Alright,” I say. “I’ll go and pack.”

Mikolaj turns away again, his shoulders straight and broad, like a barrier I can’t cross.

As I leave the billiards room, I see Jonas and Andrei down the end of the hall, talking in low voices with their heads together. They stop when they see me, Jonas giving me the fakest of fake smiles, and Andrei glaring at me coldly.

I hurry up the stairs to the east wing. I’m relieved to see Klara in my room. Less relieved to see the suitcase she’s laid on my bed.

“I thought you’d like to take some of your new clothes with you,” she says.

“Is Jonas angry that I’m leaving?” I ask her. “He looks pissed.”

“The men will do what Mikolaj says,” Klara tells me. “He’s the boss.”

I’m not so sure. They trusted him completely when he was the cold-hearted mercenary they expected. But even I know that what he’s doing right now isn’t for the good of the Braterstwo. It’s for me.

“I don’t know if I should go,” I tell her.

Klara is throwing things into the suitcase, without her usual perfectionism.

“It’s not up to you,” she tells me flatly. “Mikolaj has decided. And besides, Nessa—it’s not safe for you here.”

Her voice is low, and her body is tense. I realize that whatever Klara might say, she’s frightened. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen, either.

“Is it safe for you?” I ask her.

“Of course it is,” Klara says, her dark eyes steady and firm. “I’m just the maid.”

“You’re not a maid,” I say. “You’re my friend.”

I throw my arms around her and hug her tight. Klara stiffens up for a moment, then relaxes, dropping the bodysuit she was holding so she can hug me back.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I tell her.

“Thank you for not being a little shit,” she says.

“Most of the time,” I say, remembering all the meals I refused to eat.

“Yes,” she laughs. “Mostly.”

Klara smells nice, like soap and bleach and vanilla. Hugging her is comforting, because she’s so capable and always seems to know what to do.

“I’ll see you again soon,” I tell her.

“I hope so,” she says, without really sounding like she believes it.

I shower and brush my teeth, then put on a pair of clean leggings and a soft, slouchy sweatshirt. I don’t know where my original clothes got to, the jeans and hoodie I was wearing when Jonas snatched me. They disappeared.

Klara blow-dries my hair one last time, pulling it up in a high ponytail.

As she packs my toiletries in the suitcase, I stand at the window, looking down into the garden. I see two of Mikolaj’s men crossing the ground, walking rapidly with their heads down.