It's been three hours since the guards escorted me here. Day eight of captivity, and everything has shifted.
My bag sits in the corner where I dropped it—pathetic, really. Just rough cotton dresses and basic toiletries. But my mind still catalogues everything: exit routes, camera angles, the guard rotation I observed on the walk over. The left corridor is favored. Old patterns. Exploitable.
I'm perched on the edge of the bed, waiting, when the door opens.
Alexei walks in without knocking. Why would he, it's his room after all. Evening light from the window catches the sharp lines of his face as he crosses the room, and he doesn't look at me until he's at the window, back to the glass, arms folded.
Then those pale eyes find mine.
"So," I say, breaking the silence that's stretched between us since he returned. "Your bedroom. Should I be flattered or concerned?"
He turns then, those pale eyes assessing. "You tell me."
There's something different about him tonight. Tension in his shoulders that speaks of bad news, hard choices. A tightness around his eyes I've learned means someone disappointed him. Someone might be dead because of it.
"You could have added more cameras to my room. More guards. Instead…" I gesture at the space between us. "This."
"This," he agrees, then moves toward a cabinet. "We need to talk."
"That sounds ominous."
"Everything with us is ominous." He pulls out a bottle from the cabinet I'd noted yesterday when I first surveyed the room. Locked, but pickable. The vodka label is in Cyrillic. Beluga Gold, if I'm reading correctly.
This afternoon when the guards first brought me here, I'd done my reconnaissance after he left. The bed dominating the space. California king, dark sheets pulled tight with military corners. The bonsai on his dresser that reminded me of the one in his study, but smaller. The books on his nightstand: Russian poetry, military history, a thriller with a cracked spine. The photo of him with Mikhail and their mother that made my chest tight with guilt.
Now, just a few hours later, I know this room better. Know which floorboard creaks near the bathroom. Know the leather chair faces the window at the perfect angle to see approaching threats. Know my knife rests under the mattress where I hid it, accessible but concealed.
"Drink?" he offers.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"I'm trying to get myself drunk." He pours two generous measures. "You're welcome to join."
The crystal glasses are heavy, expensive. He sets one on the dresser near me, then takes his to the chair by the window. The vodka burns, then blooms. Smooth, complex. Nothing like the stuff I drank in college. This is what you drink when money means nothing.
"So," I say, the alcohol already warming my blood despite my tolerance. "What now? We just… coexist?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"On whether you can be honest with me for five minutes."
"I've been honest."
His laugh is dark, familiar. "You've been strategic. There's a difference." He refills his glass, gestures for me to bring mine over. "I have a proposition."
Every one of my muscles tenses. "I'm not sleeping with you."
"Not that kind of proposition." But his eyes drop to my mouth for just a second. "A game. Question for question. You answer honestly, I answer honestly. No deflection, no lies."
This is a trap. But I'm already calculating how to use it. What I can learn. What I can afford to reveal.
"And if one of us refuses to answer?"
He holds up the bottle. "You drink instead. But you only get three passes. After that…"
"After that?"
