Page 232 of Savage Don

His shirt is stained with Evan’s blood. There is dirt on his cheek, and his expression is so controlled that I know he is holding himself together by force.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I don’t know what I am apologizing for.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Galina is still screaming and pleading somewhere behind us.

Nikolai pulls me against him and turns my body toward the house. His hand comes to the back of my head, holding me against his chest so I cannot see the men take them past the hedges.

I hear Galina’s voice once more. Then Evan’s.

Then two shots. And the garden goes silent.

I don’t pull away from Nikolai. I stand there with my arms around his waist, my cheek pressed to his shirt, listening to his heartbeat under my ear.

I should feel horrified. Part of me does. Galina had been part of this house for most of Nikolai’s life. Evan had once been someone I loved enough to let close. Two people are dead behind the trees because Nikolai gave an order.

Instead, all I can think about is Anya inside the house, frightened but breathing. I can think about the weight of Nikolai’s hand at the back of my head and the fact that Evan will never touch me again.

That thought brings a rush of relief so strong it makes my knees weaken.

I hate that part of myself for it. I also cannot make it go away.

Nikolai feels me shake and tightens his hold. I stay against him because I don’t have the strength to step back, and because right now I don’t want to. Because all I need is him.

EPILOGUE

ELARA

Seven months after the garden, I’m thirty-six weeks pregnant and have reached the point where putting on socks requires planning.

Nikolai has taken this personally. “Hold still,” he says from the floor in front of me.

“I can put my own shoes on.”

“You tried yesterday and nearly fell into the wardrobe.”

“I didn’t nearly fall.”

“You grabbed the door handle with both hands.”

“Because you startled me.”

He looks up at me, one eyebrow raised, then finishes fastening the strap on my flat shoe. He has spent the last few months learning every look I make before I admit I am tired, sore, hungry, or worried. He notices when I shift in my sleep. He notices when I skip lunch because I’m nauseated. He notices when I pretend I don’t need to sit down because I am annoyed at being told to sit down.

His answer to all of it is the same: he appears beside me, takes whatever I am carrying from my hands, and tells me to stop.

Anya is no better. She has made a list titled Things the Baby Needs, although most of the things on it are for me. She checks whether I have water beside the bed. She has informed the cook that I need more strawberries because apparently babies like strawberries, and she has begun following me around the house whenever I go upstairs.

This morning, she is waiting outside our bedroom with a plate of toast.

“I put butter on it,” she tells me. “Papa said you have to eat before we leave.”

Nikolai takes the plate from her before I can.

“I said she should eat,” he says. “I didn’t say you should carry a plate up three flights of stairs.”

“I’m eight,” Anya replies. “I can carry toast.”