I’ve never felt so alone in my entire life. I have no friends to turn to. None of my socialite friends, none of the models or dancers or influencers I used to hang out with, would want anything to do with me now. I have no family to help me; the only family I had sold me into something worse than death. I have nothing. The thought is crushing, and I fight against the sense of hopelessness, because it feels so wasteful to let myself break now when I’ve finally escaped.
Someone would help you.
Unbidden, Kazimir’s face swims into my mind. The shock when he found me, the angry set of his mouth when I sassed him, the hot desire in his eyes that he thought I didn’t see until I pushed his control to the breaking point. I can’t even remember why I did that now… I set out to keep him on the hook until he got me out of Russia, but why did I push it so far? Why did I want him to…
I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel desired. I wanted to feel pleasure. I wanted a release. That’s what the spanking was, and the fucking after. A release that I’d neededfor months. And he gave it to me. I wanted him because he was there and available, and he was clearly suffocating with lust over me. Nothing more.
There’s no reason I should be thinking of him now. Not the look in his eyes when he came or the feeling of his hands on my body, the way he licked vodka from my lips and groaned like he was dying with pleasure at the feeling of his cock buried inside of me…
That last thought is unbidden and unwelcome, and I try to push it away but it persists: the memory of how he touched me, how for those few minutes in the safe house I forgot about everything except the sensation of him inside me and the way my body responded to his like it had been waiting for exactly that, for exactly him. I hate that I remember it, hate that even now, even here in this terrible motel room with my life falling apart around me, some part of me wants it again… wantshimagain. The oblivion that came with surrendering to something that felt good, even if it was complicated and dangerous and absolutely a mistake.
I lie down on the bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I'm going to be okay, that I'm going to figure this out, that I'm not going to let this destroy me. The ceiling has water stains in the corner and cracks in the plaster, and I trace their patterns with my eyes, trying to bore myself to sleep.
It doesn't come easily. Every sound in the hallway makes me tense, every car door slamming in the parking lot sends my heart racing, every creak of the building settling feels like a threat. I lie there in the dark with my eyes open, listening to the sounds of other people's lives filtering through the thin walls—a television too loud, a couple arguing, someone's footsteps on the stairs—and I feel utterly alone. There's no one I can call, no one I can turn to, no one who would help me even if I asked.
I must fall asleep eventually, because I wake up to sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains and the sound of traffic on the street below. My body aches from the cheap mattress, and I lie there for a moment, taking inventory of myself, making sure I'm still in one piece, still capable of getting up and facing another day. Everything hurts, but everything hurt yesterday, too, and I got through that, so I can get through this.
I need supplies. Clothes, toiletries, and comfortable shoes. I need to look less like someone who's running and more like someone who has their life together, even if it's a lie, and I'm barely holding on by my fingernails. I shower again, using the tiny bottles of shampoo and soap that the motel provides and wincing at the way they make my hair and skin feel, and then I dress in yesterday's clothes and head out into the morning, scanning constantly for threats.
There's a Target a few blocks away, and I walk there rather than taking a taxi, both because I need to conserve money and because walking gives me a chance to see if anyone is following me. I scan everyone around me as covertly as I can as I walk, checking for the same face appearing too many times or the same car driving past too slowly. The morning is cold and gray, typical Boston autumn weather, and I pull my jacket tighter around myself and keep my head down as I try to blend in with all the other people going about their morning routines. No one looks at me twice. No one seems to care that I exist. It should be comforting, this anonymity, but instead it just makes me feel more alone, more disconnected from the world around me. In this part of town, at least, I don’t stand out—I’m dressed slightly more shabbily, but everyone is mostly dressed down, tired-looking, and clearly lower-income.
But after fifteen or so minutes in Target, as I’m standing in the clothing section trying to decide between two pairs of jeans that are basically identical, I feel a prickling sensation atthe back of my neck, that instinctive awareness that someone is watching me. I turn slowly, trying to make it look casual and not to give away that I've noticed anything wrong.
I scan the store, looking for whoever triggered that alarm in my nervous system. There are plenty of people around, shoppers and employees going about their business, but no one seems to be paying any attention to me. No one is obviously staring or following or doing anything that would justify the fear that's suddenly coursing through my veins.
But the feeling doesn't go away. If anything, it gets stronger, more insistent. I abandon the jeans and move toward the exit, walking quickly but not running. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention, but I need to get out of this enclosed space, where I feel trapped and exposed.
I make it outside and start walking back toward the motel. I see someone getting back into a black car, and for the briefest moment, I think I see Kazimir.
It’s just a glimpse, just a figure at the edge of my peripheral vision, but something about the way he moves, the way he holds himself, sends a jolt of recognition through me that's so strong it's almost physical.
But it can't be. There's no reason for him to be here, no reason for him to be following me when he got me back to Boston and walked away. He got what he wanted—he fucked me, satisfied whatever curiosity or desire he’s had all this time, and then he went back to his life. There's no reason for him to still be involved, no reason for him to risk everything by staying connected to me. The whole situation would be a disaster waiting to happen.
And I told him to fuck off. I told him as clearly as I possibly could that I don’t want him in my life any longer, that I want no part of whatever he thinks he still feels for me. He sacrificed anychance at my trust or my desire when he let me walk out of that warehouse alone.
I wanted him in the safe house because there were no better options. That’s it.
That’s all.
I tell myself that I’m imagining things. I must be seeing threats where there aren't any, letting the paranoia get to me and make me see connections that don't exist, making me believe that I'm more important than I actually am. I’m just another woman trying to disappear into a city that's full of people trying to do exactly the same thing, and while I’m not safe, maybe I’m not in as much danger as I think I am.
My instincts tell me that’s not true.
I walk faster, my heart pounding, my breath coming short, and I don't look back. When the motel appears ahead of me, I practically run the last block, taking the stairs two at a time and fumbling with the key in the lock, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get it to turn.
Inside, I lock the door and wedge the chair back under the handle, and then I stand there breathing hard, trying to calm down and think rationally about what just happened. Maybe it was him. Maybe he's keeping an eye on me, making sure I'm safe, fulfilling some sense of obligation or responsibility that won't let him just walk away completely. Or maybe it wasn't him at all, maybe it was just someone who looked like him from a distance, and I'm working myself up over nothing, letting my fear and my paranoia turn every shadow into a monster.
Either way, it doesn't matter. Because even if it was Kazimir, even if he is following me, I can't let that change anything. I can't rely on him, can't let myself believe that he's going to save me or protect me or be anything other than another complication. And if Ilya finds out—if Ilya discovers that Kazimir helped me escape, that he hid me, that he fucked me—the consequences wouldbe catastrophic. For me, possibly, but definitely for Kazimir, because Ilya doesn't forgive betrayal and doesn't tolerate disloyalty. What we did would be seen as exactly that.
I don’t need or want any part of this. I need to make sure that no one can find me, not my father, not Ilya, not Kazimir. I need to become someone else entirely, someone with no connection to Svetlana Morozova or the life she used to have or the people she used to know.
I need to fucking disappear.
13
KAZIMIR
I've been following her for three days now, keeping enough distance that she won't spot me but close enough that I can intervene if something goes wrong. And today, something has gone wrong.
