#Mikhail Tarasov
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An antique Art Nouveau cigarette case in with unusual gargoyle imagery in repousse. Built in sterling silver with a gold bezeled ruby button to open the case. Made by Mikhail Yakovlevich Tarasov, a Russian jeweler. Weighs 7.6 ounces.
eriebasin.com
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The Night Nurse - Ch 6
A John Wick x Helen Fic
When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much. │ Masterlist / Chapter Map │
VI.
On their way through the lobby they found themselves intercepted by Winston, who presented Helen with a small red box, the sort with gold trimmed corners that usually would contain an expensive piece of jewelry. With wide eyes she accepted it, shooting John a look of bewilderment, wondering if there was some Underworld ritual happening she didn’t grasp.
John, however, had an idea of what it might contain. He nodded for her to open it, and she found a little black transmitter with a button. It had a clip and would be easily concealable anywhere, from a pocket to under her clothes. She let out a little sigh of relief, slipping the box into her purse. “Thank you, Winston. I appreciate it.”
Graciously he nodded. “My pleasure, and my regret that it may be necessary. But then, we are all villains within these walls, Miss Helen. I fear you are an angel of mercy walking amongst devils.”
John barely repressed an eyeroll at Winston’s dramatization. It didn’t mean he was wrong, mind, just…so…Winston.
“I’m not that angelic,” she countered with a little smile, and a sidelong look at the assassin at her side that spoke volumes. It was frightfully telling, earning John a raise of eyebrows from the Manager. John simply returned the older man’s gaze, betraying nothing, even while his heart did a frantic drumroll in his chest.
“I have no doubt you’re just full of surprises,” said Winston, his words heavy with double meaning as he looked between she and John. John got the sense that Winston was trying to communicate something else, but as usual, it went over his head. “I fear that device will only serve you here on the Continental grounds. Out there, you must fend for yourself.”
“Understood. I truly appreciate your accommodation. I know I’m not as dangerous as all of you. I’m afraid I’m a healer, not a killer.”
Winston’s stare settled on John once more as he said, “Give it time.” Leaning in closer, the Manager lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “You might ask yourself, Jonathan, why the little bear would so seemingly foolishly provoke you. For Mikhail Medvedev is not, in fact, as stupid as he looks.”
John’s eyes narrowed to slits, a look that was sharp as obsidian. “Do you know something?”
“I know only what I am seeing played out on my stage.” He waved to indicate the entirety of his beautiful kingdom, the luxuriously appointed lobby and everything beyond.
“Uh huh.”
Helpful, as usual.
“He certainly could not challenge you out in the open.”
John lowered his voice, unable to conceal the thread of heat in his tone. “But he didn’t challenge me. He went after her. I feel like it was dumb luck I intercepted the...” He paused, choked by rage all over again as he thought about it. When he could speak again, he settled for, “Shake down,” though it hardly encompassed the intended offense.
He thought about how he had tossed and turned that night after Helen had left him for another patient, unable to rest, unable to sleep. As though he’d known a signal would arise, that she would need him. It was ridiculous, of course. There had been no real specific indications. He wasn’t fucking psychic. Perhaps just filled with dread for what seemed inevitable, in a hotel filled to the gills with predators.
“Like it or not, it is widely known among us now that the Nurse came into our world because of you, and that she possesses your favor. You think it can’t be considered an indirect attack on you? Tarasov’s most feared assassin?”
The thought made John’s blood run cold.
Fucking politics.
“You think the Medvedevs are moving on the Tarasovs?”
Winston shrugged. It was as good as a yes. He wasn’t supposed to favor one crime family over another, but Managers were human, and prone to their preferences. What John maybe didn’t realize, was that he himself bore more of Winston’s favor than Viggo or any of the other Tarasovs.
It wasn’t that John cared, really, for the well being of the Tarasov Bratva. Viggo was a business associate. Friends...were a rare beast in their business. True friends were goddamn unicorns. The Tarasovs paid him well enough, but what worried him most now was not war, but that Helen seemed to have landed right smack in the middle of it.
“God dammit.”
Winston tilted his head in acknowledgement to John’s assessment.
“I sense you have a day ahead of you, Jonathan. I will leave you two to it.” He nodded, and took his leave, crossing the lobby to greet another assassin newly arrived.
Despite Winston’s warnings, John wasn’t sure he should raise the alarm just yet. Going to Viggo with this might prove premature.
Maybe he would get the opportunity to just kill Mikhail, his two mountainous heavies, and sweep it all under the rug.
The Tarasovs and the Medvedevs had coexisted for years. A bloody power grab smacked of a plot thought up by the meathead youths hungry for glory, not the older men who were already rich, powerful, and managing nicely to stay out of prison and enjoy their ill-gotten gains living lives of luxury. Wars drew unwanted attention. Federal attention, that couldn’t be bribed away so cheaply as the local talent.
John nodded to himself, answering his own internal dialogue. Helen watched him, her expression solemn. “It’s ok, John. Whatever you need to do…”
“No,” he said. “We’re still going to have our day.”
“Are you sure?”
He appreciated that she thought that maybe he shouldn’t run off to Jersey with a possible war on the horizon. But nothing was certain. He imagined what he would actually say to Viggo, if he tried to warn the boss now. So there’s this woman I like, and Ivan’s son may or may not have tried to have his way with her. Then we glared at each other over breakfast. Then I put him in his place with the direst of insults.
Yeah. That wasn’t going to fly.
“I am.” Then it occurred to him, “If you still want to go?”
She gave a little snort, a sparkle of laughter in her eye. “Good one, Mr. Wick.”
He just couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from turning upwards at that. She was fearless, or, dare he think it…she felt safe with him. “Can I take your bag?” He gestured at the carryall she had slung over her shoulder.
“Thanks, you’re sweet, but maybe you should keep your hands free?”
For guns, or whatever might come their way, he realized.
“You really are perfect,” he blurted before he could stop himself.
Her eyes glittered like goldstone, and she sidled a step closer, smoothing her hand down his tie. Every nerve in his body came alive with that small, seemingly innocent, touch. “Remember you said that when you get to know me better.”
He didn’t think he could ever think of her as anything but perfection.
“Well…I think I’m adding blades training to your lesson plan today. If I ever forget, you can remind me.”
She paused at that, but only for a moment, a ripple in a pool there and gone. “Well, I’m already pretty good with a scalpel. Just saying…”
Her smile was the sun, bright, beautiful, and lifegiving. He was such a goner for this woman. They had to get out of here, before he really embarrassed himself.
“Ready to go?”
“Sure.”
He offered his arm, and together they bravely, or very foolishly, dared to leave the sanctuary of the Continental for the big bad city beyond.
***
“John. What. The hell. Is this?”
These were Helen’s words as the valet roared up in John’s 1969 Mustang Boss 429. She was grinning like a fool as she said it though, so he didn’t take terrible offense.
“My daily driver?”
“Oh my god.” The heavily tattooed valet looked between them and his colleagues on the steps, simultaneously interested and anxious about this interaction.
No one talked to John Wick this way.
Little did they know, John Wick was loving every minute of it.
She ran a hand lovingly down the hood, appreciating the machine’s vintage lines. It was sleek, predatory, but stylishly subtle with its deep gray and matte black paint job, the dark racing stripes on the front. Like it knew it was the meanest motor on the road—it didn’t have to be vulgar about it.
“You know what. I take it back. It’s so you.”
John had always found the art of automotive pinups fairly ridiculous. The back room of Aurelio’s was plastered with scantily clad, implausibly proportioned women suggestively positioned over cars. He’d never understood the point. Wasn’t the car sexy enough? Yet now, seeing Helen leaning against his machine in her street clothes, just that shapely green sweater, a short brown leather jacket, and indigo washed jeans—he was starting to understand. Desire overtook him like wildfire from his head to his toes, and he found he wanted to christen the hood of this car with her beautiful long legs wrapped inextricably around him.
The thought made his every hair stand on end, an uncomfortable flush blooming beneath his collar.
“I’m glad you approve,” he finally got out in an attempt to cover the raucous churning he felt inside, his voice gone rough with this unhelpful inner dialogue. He held the passenger side door open for her, and she would never know the feat of self-control it took not to grab her up, as she brushed past to situate herself down in the passenger’s seat.
He took her bag to throw in the trunk. But before closing her door he couldn’t resist leaning down towards her, his arm on the roof, an eyebrow raised. “So, do you like to go fast?”
She inspected her nails, playing along with a knowing little smile. He knew then that he hadn’t fooled her a bit. That she saw everything with those intelligent amber eyes, and he’d never been so glad to feel so exposed.
“Honey, I’m not the one who’s been taking it slow here.”
Their eyes met, her gaze hitting John like a bullet to the heart. He clutched at his chest with a conspiratorial little smile, wishing he could keep this perfect moment in a bottle. A moment with a woman in which they were both perfectly happy. Was it really possible?
His long-ingrained cynicism tried to quash this feeling under its thumb, but this strange new sense of joy resisted.
It seemed like anything was possible, with her.
He didn’t quite burn out as they left the Continental, but the roar of their departure won grins from the red-suited valets who stood on the sidewalk before the hotel.
Truth be told, downtown Manhattan wasn’t actually the best place to drive fast, the constant stop and go of traffic and stoplights getting in their way. Helen didn’t seem to mind, curled up in the seat next to John, surveying the city going by through the windshield. Though technically she possessed a car, she rarely drove it, letting her little sister use it for the transport of art projects and her circle of wacky bohemian friends.
Helen had been a caretaker since she was practically a child herself, to her little sister, and her mother who was often incapacitated. This new sensation of being taken care of was a heady thing, and not just because her protector was a tall, dark, and handsome mafia assassin with the soulful eyes of a poet, and the long-fingered hands of a musician...
She was staring at those hands on the steering wheel, and the gear shift, painfully aware that it would have been such an easy thing for him to reach out to her in between changing gears. A part of her wished he would, and yet, it was achingly sweet, how respectful this man was. Most men would have tried to bed her by now, would not have resisted the pull of their chemistry, no matter the consequences to her or to him. Since that first night, when he’d been weakened by injury and unwilling to stand against her as she bull-dogged her way into his world, he’d been so careful not to further entangle her.
As much as she despised him, maybe she owed Mikhail Medvedev a thank you for bringing John closer to her. It was a dangerous thing, perhaps. Not because of John Wick’s reputation or his involvement with the Tarasovs. Because, she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to let him go.
“Can I ask you a question?” she posed as they paused at a seemingly unnecessarily long red light.
“Sure.”
“Did you ever find out who was shooting at you on the subway?”
John blinked, looking over at Helen from behind his dark aviator glasses. It felt like all that had happened a lifetime ago. The incident officially had been swept under the respective rug, any pertinent surveillance video erased with the offering of a gold coin, and the truth was… “No.”
He hadn’t even looked into it, really, past ensuring the cleanup. The occurrence of people trying to kill him was so frequent he’d damn near forgot about it. He’d had a couple of time-sensitive contracts to prioritize completing, and getting Helen settled at the Continental, and…he definitely shouldn’t have just let it go.
She nodded, not seeming to judge him for it. But he could tell the wheels were turning in that brilliant brain. “Is there a chance…it has to do with this Medvedev-Tarasov thing?”
There was a very good chance of that, looking at the separate pieces now, and Winston’s cryptic little warning disguised as idle gossip.
“Yeah. I’ll look into that.”
The more he thought about it, the more feasible it seemed, although also, ridiculous. The Medvedevs wanted to waste him, The Baba Yaga, so they sent some punk? Who did they think they were dealing with?
But then…he had behaved rather foolishly, making a pattern of taking the subway at the exact same time on a weekly basis. It had almost been asking for someone to at least try for it.
Helen seemed to be thinking about the vehicle of their first meeting too. “John, what were you doing on the subway all those times, if you have a car like this?”
What, indeed.
Torn between not wanting to lie to her and not wanting to admit the truth just yet, that he’d been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, or from a different side of the coin, that he’d borderline been stalking her, and then nearly got her killed, a silence drew out between them. John glanced in his rearview, checking his surroundings out of habit.
He was almost relieved, when he beheld a black Mercedes G Wagon, the same that had been behind him for several blocks and several turns. He would have bet a fistful of gold coins that Igor or Alexei was behind the wheel.
“Are you buckled up?” he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on his mirror. Were they just following to try to spook John, or would Mikhail be so audacious as to give orders for them to attack here in the middle of Manhattan in the middle of the day? He was afraid the answer might be yes.
Goddamn kids.
“Yeah. Why?” Bless his brave girl, but there was only a hint of worry in her question.
“Because we’re about to burn some rubber.”
Rather than telegraph with her turning silhouette in the window that they were on to their tail, she calmly examined her own side mirror to look back.
“Is it Mikhail?”
“Not sure,” answered John honestly. “Probably just his soldiers, though.”
“Who the fuck do these assholes think they are?”
John’s mouth twisted into a tight-lipped smile, inexplicably delighted by her cursing. Angry Helen was surfacing, and maybe his wires were a little crossed, but he still thought she was fucking hot.
“Only one way to find out.”
The light turned green, and he made a sudden right turn without signaling. When the G Wagon swung madly to follow, he knew they had a tail for sure. “Hang on.” The Mustang’s engine roared as he shifted, and the car took off like a shot. They wove in and out of traffic, the less maneuverable Mercedes struggling to follow.
“Oh my god!” exclaimed Helen, gripping the door handle as John wrenched the wheel, downshifting for traction, skidding into a left turn down a smaller street.
The Mercedes nearly tipped trying to follow. The Mustang barely slipped between a brick building and an oncoming box truck. The truck slammed on its brakes, causing a pile up, conveniently blocking the way to the street. They left a snarl of horns and yelling motorists behind them in the dust.
No one did road rage like New Yorkers, God Bless.
“Holy Shit!” exclaimed Helen with wide eyes and a huge smile, turning to watch the kerfuffle behind them quickly disappearing through the back window. Her laughter was like balm for his soul, and John found himself grinning.
“Your first car chase, I presume?” he asked, looking over with an oh-so-pleased smile.
“I thought that was just New York driving?” she tossed back with a smirk, settling back into her seat again, seemingly unphased. John couldn’t help but feel a swelling sense of pride for how well she took the stress of their madcap car ride.
“Oh no.”
The sight of the G Wagon turning onto their street ahead put a damper on the atmosphere of joy in the car.
“Get down,” instructed John. The passenger in the G Wagon, Igor, brandished a black pistol, and Helen sank down as far as she could in her seat.
Igor squeezed off a couple rounds. John swerved, and the shots went wide.
“Are they actually shooting at us in broad daylight?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Yeah.”
There wasn’t really anywhere to go but forward. No way to turn around quickly, no alleys to cut down.
Rather than slow down, John shifted, the growl of the engine echoing his rage. He knew that having Helen in the car with him made everything sharper somehow. The stakes were higher. He never wanted to die, but he’d long ago accepted the inevitability that someday someone would get lucky, and it would be lights out. He didn’t really believe in anything beyond that.
But Helen was here, and he had to survive.
“Hold on.”
“John?”
“Stay down, honey.”
Ducked down in her seat, she couldn’t see, but she certainly knew they were barreling down the street at breakneck speed. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and he hated himself for scaring her.
This had to end now.
With a flick of his wrist John steered into the Mercedes’s lane, challenging the expensive SUV head on. He could see Alexei at the wheel, his dour expression set in grim determination for this game of chicken. Igor, however, was another matter, clearly not such a fatalist as his partner, gesticulating wildly in his seat.
“John!”
She was peeking just over the dash, unable to keep herself from looking.
He did not answer, his focus on the obstacle before him. Rather than shooting at the oncoming Mustang, Igor was shouting at Alexei, grabbing for the wheel.
At the last minute, the G Wagon chickened out, swerving madly, a turn so sharp it kicked up on two wheels before skidding into a parked car on the street. There was a magnificent crash, and the Mustang roared on, switching lanes just in time to miss an oncoming taxi cab.
“Holy shit!” Helen sat back up in her seat, watching the carnage as they sped away. Then, to John’s surprise, she laughed, a deep belly laugh that sent warmth from his heart to his toes. “That was fucking awesome.” Her eyes shone like stars, her thick russet curls waving wildly about her face. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone so badly as in that moment, the adrenaline from the chase rushing through his veins. These were the moments that made life worth living for John—who knew it would be made so much sweeter, with a woman by his side?
This woman, his hindbrain corrected.
Everything was sweeter, with this woman by his side.
<<Chapter 5 Chapter 7>>
#john wick#john wick fic#john wick x helen#keanu reeves#helen wick#john wick x helen fic#john wick the night nurse
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General Tarasov isn’t wrong
#uni art#alexei tarasov#esther ivanov#anna volkov#mikhail vinogradov#aleks petrov#operation heroes#oc#soldier oc#comic#ww2 comic#meme redraw
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- I swore not to give up.
#team russia#oar#olympic games#olympic games 2018#olympic#pyeongchang2018#pyeongchang 2018#fs#evgenia medvedeva#alina zagitova#mikhail kolyada#evgenia tarasova#vladimir tarasov#natalia zabiiako#alexander enbert#ekaterina bobrova#dmitri soloviev#semion elistratov#short-track#yulia belokurova#alexander bolshunov#skiing#anastasia bryzgalova#alexander krushelnitskiy#curling
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(via Mikhail Tarasov az Instagramon: „Кто ещё не написал про жару - тот ещё напишет, ибо будет она ещё долго. Голова набекрень, работы много, а дома сидеть невыносимо даже с…”)
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Top photo -- the CDKA Moscow bandy team in 1946. Left to right: Pavel Korotkov, Dmitry Petrov, Vladimir Nikanorov, Vladimir Venevtsev, Vsevolod Bobrov, Anatoly Tarasov, Alexander Vinogradov, Mikhail Orekhov, Yevgeny Babich, Petr Zyonkin, Alexander Striganov. All would go on to play or coach “puck hockey” when the sport officially began in the USSR that same year.
Bottom photo -- some of the CDKA Moscow puck hockey team, on the same rink, in 1948. Left to right: Nikanorov, Grigory Mkrtychan, Orekhov, Babich, Tarasov, Bobrov, Venevtsev.
(Image Source 1, Source 2)
#USSR#Soviet Championship#Bandy#CDKA Moscow#Central Red Army#Forwards#Defencemen#Goalies#Pavel Korotkov#Dmitry Petrov#Vladimir Nikanorov#Vladimir Venevtsev#Vsevolod Bobrov#Anatoly Tarasov#Alexander Vinogradov#Mikhail Orekhov#Yevgeny Babich#Petr Zyonkin#Alexander Striganov#Grigory Mkrtychan
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Reposted from @thewomanbook with Aleksandra (@aleksandra_balandina) by Mikhail Tarasov (@tarasovm) #twbk2020 - #regrann https://www.instagram.com/p/B_IpXmSHmxS/?igshid=1rwcc2spbwobc
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Kazakhstan’s WJC Selection Camp Roster
Oleg Boiko | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Andrei Buyalsky | F | HK Temirtau (KAZ) Sayan Daniyar | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Ruslan Dyomin | F | HK Temirtau (KAZ) Artur Gatiyatov | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Dias Guseinov | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) | ‘19 Davyd Makutski | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Dmitri Mitenkov | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Maxim Mukhametov | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Batyrlan Muratov | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Maxim Musorov | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) | ‘19 Sergei Pryakhin | F | HK Temirtau (KAZ) Vladislav Saiko | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Danil Tretyakovsky | F | Altay Ust-Kamenogorsk (MHL) Ivan Vereshagin | F | Nomad Astana (KAZ) Aidos Zhorabek | F | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Samat Daniyar | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Temirlan Gaitamirov | D | Fargo Force (USHL) Yaroslav Khripkov | D | Altay Ust-Kamenogorsk (MHL) Artyom Korolyov | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) David Muratov | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Ernar Musabayev | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Valeri Neroyev | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Valeri Orekhov | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Kirill Pak | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Yevgeni Shinkaretsky| D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Mikhail Tarasov | D | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Denis Karatyev | G | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Vladislav Nurek | G | Altay Ust-Kamenogorsk (MHL) Vilen Prokofyev | G | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL) Demid Yeremeyev | G | Snezhnye Barsy Astana (MHL)
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-Stay Inspired- Just clean and crisp images of beautiful humans (granted, it's 99.9% females) this week. LINK BELOW Today we look at the work of incredible Russian photographer Mikhail Tarasov. Truth be told, I can't find out too much about this guys work or even his actual website (if it even exists). This could be due to Google being extremely hesitant to show me any Russian websites at the moment, or it could be that he's an utter recluse. Either way, we are still fortunate enough to enjoy his work via Instagram. Take a look and see for yourself, but I ask you, 'what are some of the defining qualities of this work that give it that 'professional' edge?' Sure, we have beautiful people. We have some nice light and the post-pro looks good. But is there an element here that gives it that top 5% of polish to make it really pop off the screen? This is an element that is hard to define today and what with many so many variables being at play, it can sometimes be difficult to take our work from great to truly excellent like this. You'll have to forgive me, but I can't see who sent me this guys work. If it's you then thank you and let me know. I get sent a bunch of work and bookmark it share bu then forget who sent what. Sorry. https://ift.tt/34YSdeu https://ift.tt/3ez59uL
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Book Review: Spirit Bound by Richelle Mead
Read on: May 14, 2014
Reread on: May 21, 2017
Rating: 5 Stars
Being the fifth book in the long-running Vampire Academyseries, one would think Spirit Bound would lose some of the commendable characteristics its predecessors possessed. However, that was definitely not the case. If anything, Spirit Bound made things all the more interesting. Suffice to say that things got a lot more complicated after the events in Blood Promise, what with Dimitri being a full fledged Strigoi out for Rose's blood. That complication aside, I liked being able to explore more of Richelle Mead's vampire world and understanding how the system works. I loved reading about Rose's kick ass skills during her official guardian tests, and seeing her work out her connections with her mother and Abe Mazur. I was thrilled to get a lot of Adrian Ivashkov exposure here and there. I liked seeing Adrian's family, and took a liking to Daniella. I even warmed up to Tatiana somewhat. I was annoyed about how Adrian's relationship with Rose turned out, even though I pretty much understand where Rose is coming from. I actually felt like so much happened in this particular book, more than usual. I suppose that would've been expected, since the book's thicker than the rest. I loved the parts about Rose and her friends' encounters in Tarasov prison and Las Vegas; things were really action-packed and intense there. I was really interested in the scenes with Viktor Dashkov and Robert Doru; I'm always welcome to learning more about spirit's properties and seeing that maybe Viktor wasn't a total jerk was refreshing. I was a bit more impressed with Lissa here than I usually am, although I will admit Dimitri's treatment of her made me think that Rose's jealousy wasn't all that irrational. Don't even get me started about Dimitri's resurrection; I actually wasn't expecting it to happen quite as soon as it did in the book. I am holding out hope that things between Lissa and Christian will go back to normal though; as far as relationships go in this series, theirs seems to be the most likely relationship to be reconciled. I was a bit irritated by how both Rose and Dimitri acted in their scenes together; the back and forth seemed a bit pointless, and they just kept going on in circles about how much Dimitri hurt Rose as a Strigoi and such. Although, I was a bit more understanding toward Dimitri, and felt that Rose should've been more patient, considering everything Dimitri went through. On a side note, I have a particular liking for Mikhail's and Eddie's characters. They'd seem like perfect older brothers. Haha! I wasn't entirely fazed by the new age-related guardian issue, although I loved reading about Dimitri's "interrogation" involving the young Moroi boy; it was pretty funny. I was extremely surprised by how the book ended though. I guess I should've expected something explosive to precede the last book of the series, but boy that plot twist just did NOT come to mind. Just, wow. I have a lot of questions, and I do hope Last Sacrifice will answer those questions. Can't wait! And P.S. I am definitely adding "sanctimonious bitch" to my vocabulary!
This review can also be seen on my Goodreads.
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*** by Mikhail Tarasov - Photo 172565175 / 500px.
Source: https://500px.com/photo/172565175/-by-mikhail-tarasov
#hair #hair #hair #woman #beauty #model #girl
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2019-20 H.C. Dynamo Moscow Players By Nationality
Russian: 30 (Maxim Afinogenov, Andrei Alexeyev, Ivan Bocharov, Sergei Boikov, Vladimir Bryukvin, Georgi Busarov, Mikhail Grigoryev, Ivan Igumnov, Artur Karmashkov, Vyacheslav Kulyomin, Georgi Kuznetsov, Kirill Lyamin, Vladislav Mikhailov, Andrei Mironov, Dmitri Moiseyev, Ivan Muranov, Dmitri Ogurtsov, Semyon Pankratov, Alexander Petunin, Igor Polygalov, Yegor Popov, Vadim Shipachyov, Ilya Shipov, Daniil Tarasov, Pavel Tkachenko, Anton Vasilyev, Artyom Volkov, Vladislav Yefremov, Alexander Yeryomenko & Yegor Zaitsev)
Slovakian: 1 (Michal Cajkovsky)
Finland: 1 (Juuso Hietanen)
Latvian: 1 (Miks Indrasis)
Swedish: 1 (Andre Petersson)
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