I shake my head. “No.” I don’t say that Adam is too cheap for one, even though that’s the truth. “But there’s no hide-a-key or anything.” I stare at the door, feeling so close to my cello but so far at the same time.
Ilya nods and looks to the side of the house. “Is there a back door? That will be safer.”
Safer?
“Yeah. But the yard is…” Before I can finish, Ilya walks over to the fence. He lets himself in—he has no trouble reaching over the side and pulling the latch up—and heads to the back. I jog after him.
I’m embarrassed by the state of the yard. There are weeds everywhere, and with the cooler weather the yard is covered in leaves, too. I should have raked before I left. Or tended to the plants somehow. Maybe mowed the lawn one more time.
Ilya walks up to the back door and pulls something out of his pocket. I get close enough to see that they’re two long rods.
No, they’re lockpicks.
He stands at the back door and picks the lock. It doesn’t even take him that long. He slides the door open and smiles at me.
“Safer, because fewer neighbors will see,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get your cello.”
I stare at him. I’m not surprised that someone in the criminal underworld knows how to pick locks, but should I pretend not to know that? “How did you know how to do that?” I ask him, hesitating instead of stepping through the door.
My heart is racing, and I look around. I half-expect Adam to appear at any second with his face twisted up with rage at my sheer audacity at breaking into his home to get my own belongings.
“I learned when I was young. That isnotstandard Russian education,” he jokes. He looks around the kitchen. “Grab your wallet, keys, and cello. And important papers.”
I take a deep, shaky breath, but as the seconds pass, I force myself to relax. It makes no sense to think he’ll show up. I left my phone at Ilya’s so he couldn’t track it, he has no security system, and even if the neighbors call him, I have time to get in and out.
I hope.
I hurry to the bedroom, grabbing my wallet and keys and stuffing them into my pockets.
Ilya follows me, and I step around him so I can go to the spare room.
Right as I step through the door, I realize my mistake.
My cello isn’t the only thing in here.
One of the walls has several hooks on it, where different BDSM paraphernalia are hanging from them — a leash and collar, a flogger, a whip — and the spanking bench is in one corner.
My cheeks burn.
A man like him has to have more experience than I do. He’ll know what all of it is, and he’ll know what all of it means.
I gesture to my cello. “Right there,” I say, trying to ignore the rest even though part of me wants to go and reclaim the collar that Adam had given me when things had beengood.
When he had loved me as much as I love him.
Ilya stares at the walls. His eyes track from one item to the next, and his brow furrows deeper and deeper.
“Thismudak, he hurts you with this?” he growls, pointing at the whip.
I startle, giving a quick shake of my head. “It doesn’t hurt,” I tell him. Some of these are things I tolerate because Adam likes them, not because I enjoy them, but I like others. “It’s just… lifestyle things.”
“Lifestyle?” Ilya repeats. “What lifestyle?”
I fidget, briefly looking down at the floor before risking a glance at Ilya. “BDSM,” I whisper. “Idolike it. It makes me feel good.”
Confusion flickers across Ilya’s face. “BDSM. I know it. You enjoy getting hurt?” He walks over to the wall with the floggers. He puts on a pair of leather gloves, then runs his gloved fingersalong the length of the whip. “Do you want me to hit you with this?”
I hesitate. If I say yes, he’ll try to do it for me. If I say no, he’ll get angry at Adam for having done it anyway.
