My mind goes immediately to him and how he slept, if he needs anything, and I force myself upward to check on him. I stand and walk to the door before remembering that last night before turning in, Fyodor locked it. I don’t hold out much hope as I reach for the knob to turn it, but when I do, it turns freely. It's unlocked?
I stare at it in shock as I pull it open a crack.
Fyodor unlocked my door during the night at some point when I was sleeping, and I never heard him. When he locked me in here, I assumed it was because he doesn't trust me not to run, which is wise on his part. I want to run as far away as fast as I can, and I want to tell the whole world what happened.
But even as the thought forms, guilt immediately follows. What about Sasha? I can't take him with me—if he really is Fyodor's biological son, removing him would be kidnapping. But leaving him here feels equally wrong. And if I tell the authorities Mr. Gravitch kidnapped me and the man goes to prison, who willcare for Sasha then? No court in the world would give that boy to me now.
But I am trapped. He really did take me from my school room and lock me up here. That's a crime he should be held accountable for, and I'm the only one who could ever make him pay. I have to push the guilt aside and think of the long term. Sasha needs to be with someone who can care for him properly, and Fyodor Gravitch isn't that person. If I want to do the right thing, I have to risk leaving him here temporarily in order to get him away permanently.
I dress quickly in jeans and a sweater from my suitcase, my hands shaking as I pull on socks and shoes. Every sound in the house makes me freeze, listening for footsteps or voices that might indicate someone's awake. But everything remains quiet.
I slip into the hallway and pause outside Sasha's door. It's closed, and I can hear nothing from inside. He's probably still sleeping, exhausted from yesterday's emotional upheaval. I can't wake him so he sees me leaving. The guilt intensifies, but I force myself to move past his room toward the main part of the house.
My heart is racing and I keep telling myself this is for Sasha's own good. I'll get outside and if I'm out back, I'll figure out how to jump that fence. And if I'm out front, I'll run toward the first house I see and get a phone to call for help. I'm not leaving him—I'm going for help. It's the only thought I allow into my head as my feet fall one in front of the other, not thinking about anything at all anymore except escape.
I reach the back of the house and find myself in the kitchen. It's massive and pristine, black granite counters gleaming under the overhead lights that someone's left on. Professional-grade appliances line the walls, and a magnetic knife rack holds anarray of blades in various sizes. The room smells like coffee, suggesting someone's been here recently to make their morning pot, but that thought makes adrenaline surge. It means someone is awake to stop me. I can't stand around here thinking things through.
The back door is visible across the room and my heart races as I move toward it. I'm halfway across the kitchen when I notice movement in my peripheral vision.
Sasha sits at the island with his back to me, his small frame perched on one of the tall stools. He's eating an apple, taking small bites and chewing slowly. Lazar stands near the counter with his back turned, pouring coffee into a mug. Neither of them has seen me yet.
I freeze, torn between continuing toward the door and retreating before they notice. But then Sasha turns on his stool, and his eyes meet mine across the kitchen.
His face lights up with recognition, then immediately crumbles into confusion and hurt. He slides off the stool and runs toward me, the apple forgotten on the counter. "Miss Dragunova, you're leaving?"
It feels like a knife in the chest as I lower myself to embrace him and watch as Lazar turns to face me. "Hey… shh," I soothe, wrapping my arms around him and keeping my eyes locked on the large man who now looks very imposing given how I've shrunk myself to Sasha's level.
My escape attempt is over. Even if I wanted to continue, he'd stop me before I made it three steps. But looking down at Sasha's devastated face, I realize I couldn't run even if Lazar weren't there.
The truth is crushing. I can't abandon this frightened child to strangers and walk away knowing he'll feel betrayed and alone. He's lost his mother, and I'm the only familiar thing he has left.
"No, sweetheart." I pull him into my arms and hold him tight, feeling him shake against me. "I was just looking for you. You weren't in your room." My words come out around the knot in my throat and I can't take my eyes off Lazar. He's glaring at me menacingly. He knows what I was planning. I can see it in his eyes.
"Promise?" His voice is muffled against my shoulder.
"I promise." The words come out steady even though my heart's breaking. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here with you."
He clings to me, wrapping his small arms around my neck with surprising strength. I stand slowly, lifting him with me even though he's getting too big to be carried easily. He buries his face in my neck, and I feel dampness spreading across my skin where his tears soak through.
"I've got you," I whisper against Sasha's hair, rubbing circles on his back.
I want to go home. I want my life back. I want to wake up and find this was all some terrible nightmare.
But this boy has my heart, and I'm trapped here by something far stronger than locked doors and armed guards. Maybe that is why that door was unlocked this morning. It's what Fyodor Gravitch is counting on. That I won't desert this little boy.
And his assumption would be correct.
11
FYODOR
The door to the apartment swings open, and I know immediately that we're too late. Vasili moves past me into the small living room with his weapon drawn and his boots leaving wet footprints on the carpet, and I follow behind him. But I know what we'll find.
"Check the bedroom," I grumble, moving toward the kitchen where I can already see dirty dishes piled in the sink.
The trash bin overflows with takeout containers and empty bottles, plastic bags stuffed so full the lid won't close properly. I pull one of the containers out and check the receipt stapled to the side, reading the date printed at the top—two days ago. I slam my fist against the counter hard enough to make all the dishes in the sink rattle and clank against each other.
Vasili appears in the doorway with his weapon holstered now. "The bed's not made and dirty clothes are scattered…" He scowls at me. He can probably read my fucking mind.
