Exactly as planned.
This is going to be easier than I thought.
9
HOLLY
The silence of the lodge presses against me after Nikolai leaves.
I sit in the dining room for a long moment, staring at the doorway where he disappeared, my heart still doing strange gymnastics in my chest from the way he leaned in close and whispered those words.
I like it when you watch.
Heat crawls up my neck at the memory.
And I hate myself for the heavy pulse still throbbing between my thighs when I remember the brush of his lips against my ear.
Get a grip, Holly.
I sigh and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Sometimes the surrealness of the situation makes me think I am lying in a coma somewhere and this is me living out some fucked up fantasy I’m conjuring in my head.
The sound of clattering pots draws my attention toward what must be the kitchen. I follow the noise, grateful for the distraction from my own spiraling thoughts.
The kitchen is massive and gorgeous, all gleaming stainless steel and warm wood. A woman with silver-streaked hair pulledinto a neat bun stands at the counter, flour dusting her apron as she kneads dough with practiced efficiency.
She looks up when I enter, her weathered face breaking into a warm smile.
"You must be Holly," she says in heavily accented English. "I am Katya. Mr. Morozov's housekeeper. Come in, come in."
"Hi," I manage, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Intruding?" She laughs, a rich sound that fills the kitchen. "No, of course not. You are a guest here."
A guest. Right.
I step into the kitchen as a young guy emerges from what looks like a walk-in pantry, his arms loaded with canned goods. He's somewhere in his mid-twenties, with sandy hair and an easy smile.
"You must be the new arrival," he says cheerfully, setting the cans on the counter. "I'm Andrei. Kitchen hand, general fix-it guy, and Katya's favorite helper."
"Onlyhelper," Katya corrects with a fond eye roll. "Do not let him fool you. He breaks more than he fixes."
Andrei clutches his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Katya."
The easy banter between them makes something twist in my chest. It's sonormal. So warm and comfortable. Nothing like what I expected to find in the home of a man who kidnapped me.
Do they know their boss is a murderer? Do they have any idea that I'm not here by choice?
Katya must see something in my face because her expression softens. "Sit, sit. I make you cocoa, yes? Good for the cold. Good for the nerves."
Yeah, she probably knows.
I sink onto one of the stools at the kitchen island and watch as she moves around the kitchen with the efficiency of someonewho's done this a thousand times. Milk goes into a pot. Cocoa powder. A touch of vanilla. She whisks it all together while Andrei organizes the pantry goods.
"I just heard on the radio, a storm is coming," he says conversationally, reading labels and sorting cans. "Big one, according to the weather service. Should hit Christmas Eve."
"How big?" I ask, accepting the mug of steaming cocoa Katya slides across the counter to me. She’s added marshmallows and sprinkled it with chocolate.
