Aequitas - Hope Anika (i like reading books txt) 📗

Fucking hope.

“Honor,” Cian murmured, his lips moving to her ear, his warm breath washing over her skin, and she shivered. “You alright, lass?”

No, not at all.

To top it all off, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Hannah. She’d met aristocracy and military men and celebrities, CEOs and supermodels; politicians and their botoxed, perma-smiling wives. Men who were undoubtedly criminals and kingpins, and the sleek, subdued women who accompanied them. Everyone who was anyone in this part of the world surrounded her, but none of them were who she sought.

Which only fed the painful ache in her chest.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, her hands tightening on the delicate stem of the champagne glass she held.

“Patience,” Cian whispered and nuzzled her. “We’ve only been here an hour.”

An hour which she’d had to spend smiling pleasantly and making idiotic small talk. Lying. About her identity, her job, her relationship with the man whose hands never left her.

They hadn’t even seen Petrov yet.

Honor couldn’t help but wonder if he would recognize her. Because regardless of hair color, she and Hannah looked a lot alike; they shared their mother’s pale, freckled skin, full cheeks and slender nose. They had the same brilliant green gaze and wide, unsmiling mouth. The urge to get right into Andrei Petrov’s face—to the point where he couldn’t possibly miss the resemblance—gripped her with razor-sharp claws.

Stupid. Monumentally stupid.

But tempting. She was so angry. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know where Hannah had been for the last seven years, or how she’d gotten here, whether she cared for Petrov or even if she was happy. Honor didn’t care. She just wanted to snatch her sister and run. She was infuriated by all the time they’d lost; enraged that their childhood had drowned in a pool of bright red blood. And the closer to Hannah she got, the more furious she became.

“Come,” Cian said, and suddenly he was removing the champagne glass from her hand and tugging her toward the dance floor, a huge expanse of black and white marble tile where couples swung and swayed to music provided by the small, intimate orchestra that occupied one wall of the room.

Petrov’s home was enormous; it made Cian’s place look like a shack. Walls papered in what looked like raw silk; floors of swirling, unspeakably beautiful granite and marble. Art that should have adorned the Louvre. Furniture dotted the space: sleek wooden tables and chairs, velvet-lined settees, leather ottomans and stools of twisted copper with bright blue cushions. The champagne tingled on her tongue, and the food smelled like heaven. Large black and white photographs dotted the room, pictures of the refugees for whom the nights benefit was being thrown: stark, haunting faces lined by exhaustion and hollow from starvation. Men, women, children. They were startling and effective, and Honor found her eyes wandering to them again and again. The cynical part of her wondered where any money donated tonight would actually go, because she had a hard time believing it would benefit any refugees.

“Smile, lass,” Cian murmured and gathered her into his arms to dance. His hands slid around her hips and hauled her toward him, and his big body surrounded her in his heat and scent. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”

“Where is she?” Honor replied, frustrated. Her hands curled around the lapels of his tux of their of volition. “Have you seen her?”

“Nay,” he said. “Perhaps she’ll not be in attendance tonight.”

Honor growled softly, unwilling to consider that possibility. She hadn’t squished herself into this dress and braved breaking her ass in these shoes to no avail. She hadn’t made inane small talk and allowed Cian free reign of her person and felt fucking hope for nothing.

Hannah had to show. She had to.

“You must be prepared for the worst,” Cian warned softly. “No matter how difficult.”

Those ominous words echoed Akachi’s sentiments, and Honor scowled and look away from him. They swayed silently to the music, and she resented how well they moved together, the almost painful awareness that hummed through her at Cian’s proximity. He smelled delicious; pressed against her, he felt even better. And his solicitous manner all evening had affected her, born a yearning she’d never before known. She wanted that love to be real.

Which was ludicrous and unacceptable and more than a little shocking. She was here because of Hannah. For no other reason. And even if she was tempted by Cian—for which she could only be considered human—to pursue that temptation was out of the question, and was not something that should have ever crossed her mind.

Let alone occupied it every moment since she’d met the man. Before that, if she was honest. Since the day his words had shattered her carefully constructed isolation and ignited all of those embers she kept so carefully banked.

Damn him.

“Honor,” he murmured, his hands tightening on her hips, and she could feel that direct, intense gaze burning into the top of her head. But she was saved from having to respond when the music ended, and Andrei Petrov suddenly appeared atop a small raised platform that sat on the far end of the dance floor.

Beside him stood Hannah.

Shock jolted through Honor, and she took an instinctive step toward her sister, but Cian caught her and hauled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her in a heated human cage. To anyone watching, his embrace appeared possessive, loving, but Honor knew—if she wanted release—she would have to fight for it. And part of her desperately wanted to fight, even though she knew he was right, that this moment was not the time or place. Still…Hannah.

Too slender and pale in a shimmering dark blue evening gown, the cap of her ebony hair tousled, her mouth painted pale pink. Tiny sapphires winked in her earlobes; a matching choker encircled her neck. She struck a model’s pose at Petrov’s side, her arms akimbo, one hip jutted forward, and she looked nothing like the sister Honor had once known.

She looked like a stranger.

The ache in Honor’s chest swelled, and for a moment she leaned back into Cian’s embrace and let him hold her. His arms tightened, and they watched as Andrei Petrov removed the microphone from the stand before him and laughed into it.

“Welcome, my friends,” he said and smiled broadly, lifting a hand to acknowledge the crowd. He looked as unremarkable in his sleek tux as he had in the photo Honor had seen, an average man with minimal stage presence and little charisma. “Welcome to my home.”

Several people called out greetings. A small, cool curve turned Hannah’s mouth.

“Thank you for coming,” Petrov continued. “As you know, we are gathered here tonight to honor my daughter, Anna’s, charity: Helping Hands.”

Applause burst around them, and when Hannah nodded—as if in acknowledgment—Honor could only stare at the stage, more than a little dumbfounded.

“My Anna has traveled the world and witnessed the tragedies born of war,” Petrov announced soberly. “The hunger, the devastation, the chaos. She has spent time among the refugees, she has visited the camps and documented the horrors.” A hand swept toward the photographs that dotted the room. “And she has finally returned to me, determined to change what she saw. There could be no father prouder of his daughter than I.”

More applause. For a moment, Honor thought she might be sick.

My daughter, Anna….

“I will allow her to tell you of her charity, and what it will do to help those in need. But I urge you to consider making a generous donation. I, myself, will match the dollar amount of any donation made this evening. And, of course, we will auction off Anna’s photographs, with all of the profits going to Helping Hands.” Petrov handed Hannah the microphone; she leaned forward to accept the kiss he pressed to her cheek. He said something to her which made that chilly smile falter, but Honor couldn’t tell what. And then Hannah was taking center stage and speaking.

“Thank you, father,” she said, her voice touched by an odd accent. Honor stared at her, suddenly afraid that this woman wasn’t her sister, but was someone else entirely. Because how could someone change so much? Become someone wholly foreign and unknown? A shadow of the person they’d once been, an identity rewritten. Even her words had changed, reshaped by this place and these people.

A fine, furious tremor moved through Honor, and Cian squeezed her gently. Cian. Who had to have known. Who’d let her walk into this wholly unprepared. The son of a bitch.

She yanked violently against his hold.

“Easy, a rứnsearc,” he murmured in her ear. “I ken you’re angry, but now is not the time.”

She shook in his hold, her nerves so taut, she feared they might snap.

“Thank you for joining us tonight,” Hannah continued with a nod. “Helping Hands thanks you, as do the people of Syria. People I hope to improve the lives of, with your help and generosity. People who are desperate and in need. People who have grown quite close to my heart.” Her voice thickened, and she blinked, and the cool smile faded. “When I arrived in Damascus, my only goal was to document the refugees. I had been hired to photograph them as they made their way to the border of Jordan. But what I found…what I found made it impossible to stop with only photos. No picture can convey the horror and terror I witnessed, nor the stubborn hope and unbending fortitude of the people. I am not sure there are words for such a thing. As you can see, I captured but pieces.” She nodded at the photographs on display. “They are only small snapshots,