“Eat,” says Maxim softly, breath warm against my ear. He’s followed me into the house and stands at my back, his body pressed ever so slightly against mine. I take the bowl when the woman gives it to me. Stew, with huge chunks of dark meat—venison?—and carrots and onions. I settle by the door in a wicker chair and watchJeopardy, letting myself forget, just for a moment, that I might die tomorrow.
* * *
The men are posted or settled for the night, the cars accumulating drifts of snow on the drive. Tomorrow I’ll feign my escape and go to my father. I’ll find out the fate of my children. My mother. Myself.
My future.
I’ve been given my own room on the second floor, a tiny, slant-ceilinged little chamber that I instantly and intuitively like better than my room at the Roza Dom.I’m bathed and buried in hand-knitted blankets when someone knocks at the door.
“Come in.” I don’t look up, expecting Maxim.
But it’s Sacha who enters.
Fear rakes cold fingers down my spine. I’m on my feet, not sure what I’m going to do, before Sacha has even crossed the room. But for a man his size, he’s fast. In an instant, the door is shut behind him and he’s across the room, massive hand clamping over my mouth before I can shout for Maxim.
“I’m not going to hurt you,malen’kaya zmeya,” he growls. “Don’t shout.”
True to his word, he releases me. I debate calling Maxim anyway—Sacha has made his hatred of me extremely clear, and I know just how dangerous he is. The bruises on my neck only fully disappeared yesterday. Still, curiosity gets the better of me. Sacha sinks onto the heavily-quilted bed and looks me over, slowly and unabashedly.
I don’t let it make me sweat. I’m wearing a nightgown that belongs to the woman of the house, probably from her younger years. It’s plain white cotton with a high neckline and hangs just to my mid-thigh. But if Sacha thinks he can make me uncomfortable, he’s a bigger fool than I thought.
Because I am dangerous too.
I sit beside him on the bed. “Tak?”
He’s silent a long moment, staring at the spot where I stood blankly. We’re close enough our shoulders touch. He’s a massive man, taller even than Maxim, and built like a tank. Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows. I curl my toes in my woolen socks.
“I’m cold,” I tell him in Russian. “You made me get out of bed.”
“Tomorrow, if you betray us, I will kill you myself.”
He says it very softly, almost thoughtfully, and for some reason, this is far more terrifying than when he shouts and stomps around, waving his glock in my face.
“Fuck you,” I say, just as softly as he spoke. Sacha turns to look at me. “You don’t frighten me.”
“You frighten me.”
The words startle any cutting or witty reply from my lips. I look at him quizzically.
“Maxim is the best man I’ve ever known,” Sacha says, looking down at his big hands. “The only man I’ve ever been proud to serve. And Alexei…”
What is this? I thought Sacha had come to threaten me. Instead, he’s, what, imploring me to do the right thing? “I won’t betray Maxim. Not for you. For him.”
Sacha studies me. “You are very beautiful.”
I cock a brow. “Do you think so?”
His huge hand finds my face. I flinch away, instantly hating myself for the display of weakness, but Sacha doesn’t strike or choke me. He touches my cheek with a rough, calloused palm.
“I can’t frighten you,” he says. “Can I?”
You can and you have.But again, curiosity has me. “Speak your mind, Sacha.”
His hand drops and he stares at the scarred hardwood beneath us. “I should have been there. The day Alexei followed your father. The day he was shot. He’d been acting strangely, more skittish than usual. He was not sleeping. Now I know why.”
“He’s a good man, Alexei. I don’t know him, but I hope to.”
Sacha studies my face again, eyes searching—for what? Answers? Confessions?
