He didn’t exactly say hewasn’tthat kind of man.
But his words suggested it.Didn’t they?
I know all about the subjunctive mood from years of rigorous grammatical tutoring in multiple different languages.
But that doesn’t mean Miko used it correctly.
And if he didn’t, then his statement most likely was a veiled threat, which means I just put Svetlana in far more danger than she was already in.
Because now he knows she’s important to me.
He could use her to hurt me.
A sob threatens to escape me, and I choke it down, tipping my head to look up at the ceiling as I try to hold back the tears. I don’t know what to do.
My life with Pyotr was hell on earth, but at least I knew how to minimize his aggression.
But this week of second-guessing my every move, agonizing over every what-if has been pure torture.
I don’t know Miko. I don’t know how he might react or what to expect next.
And that, more than anything, has my stomach in such knots, I doubt I’ll ever be able to unravel them.
As of now, I have the freedom to move about the house, but I’m terrified to go back out and risk running into him again.
Leaving him standing there in the garden was a terrible move. Now I’ll never know if I could have diffused the situation with the right words. Meanwhile, I could be allowing him to stew all day on what I said.What if he’s the kind of man who works himself up into a violent rage?
Pyotr was always quick to anger.
He never held back in the heat of the moment.
But he was also masterful at holding grudges when it suited him. Miko could be that kind of angry.
He might be building up a case against me, waiting for the right moment to unleash his wrath upon me.
A string of Russian expletives rush from me, and I storm into the bathroom, looking for something to clean.
I need to keep my hands—and hopefully my mind—busy. It’s an old reaction of mine, one I developed growing up.
My mother was an avid believer that idle hands were the devil’s plaything, so even though we had a full staff to maintain the house, if I wasn’t working on my studies, I was learning to cook and clean, darn and sew things.
But I don’t have any needles or yarn with me, and cleaning can be cathartic.
Some habits die hard, I suppose.
So I scrub and straighten, tidy and fold, trying to ease the ball of tension building in my stomach.
Chastity comes in around lunchtime to check on me.
She drops off a sandwich and reminds me that it’s her job to keep the apartment clean, but I assure her that this is what I need.
It helps me think.
She’s heard the spiel before, so she doesn’t argue.
Instead, she just shakes her head and leaves.
After she’s gone, I eye the sandwich—a crisp BLT on rye with fresh tomatoes from the garden.
