Chapter 10

Mishka

Imoaned as I slipped the hateful high heels off for a moment. It was my second week in the service of Anton Aslanov, and I had grown to truly despise the shoes. My feet had quickly developed blisters, but more than that, they ached.

Standing was surprisingly taxing on my entire body. This was especially strange considering that I often stood to play the violin over the years. But the duration of even the longest piece of music was less than a single evening serving Anton.

I sat down on the window seat to check my phone. I had just eaten then run up to my room before it was time for me to serve lunch. My father still hadn't texted back. He was traveling today, and would see the doctor tomorrow.

I had no idea how he had arranged things so quickly, but I was vastly relieved. I knew it my heart that it was a one in a million chance that he would recover, or even live much longer, but the little girl in me could not help but dream.

I set the phone down and slipped my aching feet back into the black leather heels. I winced, running to the door and down the hallway. I hastily smoothed my hands over my hair, realizing I was most likely makeup free, and pulled a lipgloss out of my frilly little apron, hastily applying it as I passed a mirror, not even bothering to fully stop.

I could not be late for lunch. He would be angry if I was late. And I could not afford to make him angry.

I slowed down from a run to a brisk walk as I veered into the dining room and froze. Three handsome men were staring at me expectantly. All of them in suits. All of them nearly identical in face, and form, other than their coloring.

There were subtle differences that registered in the moment that I stared at them, aghast, before scurrying over to my place where I had stood every night since I started working for Anton, holding up the wall.

"Thank you for joining us, Mishka," the master of the house drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. My face turned beet red. I did not have a watch but I could not have been more than a minute late.

"Don't tease the girl. She's on time. We were early," Andrei said. The brothers were famous in Moscow so I recognized them easily. Anton, of course, was the one with the light brown hair and easy-going smile. Alexie looked like a rock star with his shock of nearly white blond hair and turquoise eyes. And Andrei was dark, his hair and eyes nearly black.

"So out of breath. Can we offer her some vodka?" Alexie teased, holding up a glass that was nearly empty. I hastened to refill it, stutteringly asking if he wanted ice.

"Not now, little Mishka. Thank you," he said, then gave me a flirtatious wink. I blinked, momentarily frozen, then scurried away.

"Interference," I heard Andrei mutter under his breath, but I was too distracted to wonder what he meant.

The brothers drank steadily through the meal, making offhand comments to me, sometimes asking questions, sometimes making strange jokes to Anton that I did not understand.

I did my best to ignore all three of them. Finally, the two brothers left, though one of them stopped to kiss my hand. The blond one. I saw the other two shooting daggers at his back with their eyes as he bent over my hand, saying ‘it was a pleasure', in a silky voice. I swallowed, pulling my hand back as soon as he released it.

I sighed in relief as they left the dining room. I was free for the afternoon. Free until the evening where I would be required to pour vodka and wait, until the master decided it was time to go to bed. I felt my whole body relax as I turned toward the door.

"Mishka."

I stiffened and turned back to face him. Anton was looking at me thoughtfully, still in his seat. I could have sworn his eyes slid down my body, but it was so fast I could not be sure.

I wondered if he could tell the shoes were uncomfortable, or if he just thought I was below par. Either way, his eyes were hot and hard.

"Please join me in the study. I have a lot of work to do and find your presence… calming."

I swallowed and nodded. He stood and gestured to the door. I waited. He stood there. I glanced at him and he gestured to the door. I walked out, feeling odd preceding him. I stood in the middle of the hallway, still having no idea where his study actually was.

I felt like crying, standing there, feeling so lost. He leaned over my shoulder. I could feel the heat of him on my back. And then his voice and his breath brushed my neck softly.

"It's this way, little Mishka," he said, lifting his arm and pointing forward.

I stepped forward, feeling like a marionette. It was so hard to act like I was normal, or comfortable, but I tried. My legs felt heavy, and each step felt forced.

"You can turn here," he said behind me, sounding amused. I followed another hallway, walking slowly. It was darker back here, without windows. I had not seen this part of Anton's wing before.

"This is it. I need to open the door."

I looked over my shoulder at him, questioningly.

"There's a code," he said, with a look on his face that looked suspiciously like he was laughing at me. I stepped back, belatedly realizing he needed to actually get to the keypad. I turned away so he didn't think I was looking at it.

"After you," he said, and I turned to see him holding open the door. I looked around in awe. This room was two stories high, with arched windows that soared above, providing ample light. But there was no entrance to the outside here. In fact, the glass looked incredibly thick. I stepped towards it, tilting my head.

"It's bulletproof," he said, somehow very close to my ear. I jumped slightly, blushing as I stepped away. I looked around, amazed at the sheer number of books and periodicals. There were shelves of magazines, and a hanging rack that held numerous newspapers, draped over the wood rods like fabric, hanging to be dried. The massive wood desk was ornately carved, with feet that looked like they were talons. Or claws.

Like the man who settled behind the desk, everything in the room was beautiful, over-the-top expensive looking, and incredibly intimidating.

"The vodka is just there," he said, pointing to a beautiful bar, crafted of gleaming hardwood and inset in the endless rows of bookshelves that lined the walls. There were cabinets, too, and massive easy chairs, as well as a dark leather couch that looked big enough to sleep on. The tones of the room were muted but warm. I imagined an artist would know the names for them, but I did not.

I hurried across the room to pour him vodka. If I wasn't his servant, I would have asked him how much he drank in a day, but I knew it was not appropriate. I also knew it was a lot.

Too much, even for the Motherland.

"There is ice in the hidden drawer."

I gave him a questioning look over my shoulder, then looked down.

"It is hidden," he repeated, laughing at me again. The man seemed to take endless pleasure in mocking me.

I scowled and started testing the panels in front of me, bending forward and eventually kneeling down on the carpet.

"Push harder," he added helpfully. My scowl intensified. Finally, one of the panels opened, revealing a fridge with water bottles. I had yet to see him take a sip of water. I decided to remedy that. "The other panel," he said, now openly chuckling.

This time I did turn around to give him a look.

He only laughed harder.

I retried the second panel and found a freezer. There were bottles of chilled vodka, as well as ice. I used pinchers and dropped it into a short glass, then added another oversized cube to a tall drinking glass as well. I poured him vodka, then a glass of water. I carried both glasses to him and set them on marble coasters, already conveniently positioned.

He leaned back in his seat and looked at the glasses, then at me. He raised an eyebrow. I looked back, hiding my trepidation, looking him right in the eyes.

"I didn't ask for water," he said, cocking his head to the side and stippling his fingers. I swallowed, then lifted my chin. He stared at me for a long moment. "But I should have some. Thank you for looking out for me, Mishka. I can't remember the last time someone did that."

I nearly fell back on my heels. The look in his eyes was sincere. Even vulnerable. I nodded and raced back to the bar to stand, hating my shoes with a violent passion, but feeling somehow… better.

Like I was serving a purpose here.

I waited patiently to pour Anton another drink.