I’ve seen the kind of respect Maksim gives Sergei, even when it’s laced with barely concealed irritation. If there’s a threat toward their bottom line suddenly presenting itself, there’s no doubt in my mind they wouldn’t hesitate in taking it out.
I’m terrified of what will happen once they somehow find out I’m not going to keep my head down like some clueless American girl here to teach English. But I’m also not going to go down without a damn fight, either.
Waking up night after night tossing and turning every day, haunted by flashes of blood and that man who collected us to bring us back to Maksim’s stronghold, has me finally making the decision to put my foot down and just get it over with.
I can’t keep sitting here waiting for the other shoe to drop. I need to act before it’s too late and gather as much evidence as I can to make it out of this with both my life and my damn paycheck intact.
The morning of, I dress carefully before heading down for breakfast. I make sure to wear something not too nice, but not sloppy, either, a soft sweater and jeans with my hair brushed back into a neat braid with minimal makeup. The goal is toappearfunctional and completely unfazed, nothing that might suggest I’ve been having panic attacks in my bed for the last seventy-two hours.
I catch Sergei in the dining room around midmorning. He’s alone and Yulia is nowhere in sight, most likely with her tutors. The staff float around in their usual silent rhythm, placing dishes and refilling glasses without a word. Classical piano plays softly from a speaker hidden somewhere behind the molding.
He sits at the head of the table, tablet in one hand, coffee cup in the other.
I stand there in the doorway for a beat too long that almost convinces me to back out of this entire plan, but before I can, I force myself into sitting down in the chair two spaces to his right. My heart is beating so hard I swear the vibration is in my teeth, but he doesn’t look up.
One of the waitstaff appears beside me and pours a cup of coffee into the porcelain cup already waiting at my place. Another brings over a small plate of toast, fruit, and what looks like perfectly scrambled eggs stuffed between slices of a croissant.
I’m grateful for the distraction, taking a small sip of the coffee, black and bitter. At least if today goes horribly wrong, I’ll have had one last delicious meal.
Once I’m halfway through my breakfast, I push my plate back and I force myself to speak before I can continue to second-guess myself. “Can I head into the city today?”
His eyes don’t move from the tablet. “For?”
My fork drags a wedge of strawberry across the porcelain, and the pinkish juice leaves a thin, red streak behind. It looks almost like blood.
I blink hard at it, the image flashing too fast through my mind to stop it—the memory of blood spilled all over the floor of the cafe, thick and dark and still wet as I step over it, keeping Yulia’s face pressed against my shoulder so she could remain innocent to all the gore surrounding us.
A shiver snakes through my body. My appetite suddenly evaporates.
“Just… to pick up a few things. Personal products.” I clear my throat, setting down my fork. “Um, if you catch my drift.”
That gets his attention.
His head lifts, eyes narrowing. For a moment, I think I’ve overplayed it. That he’s seen straight through the excuse and knows exactly why I want out of the house and not because I’ve suddenly run out of tampons.
I hold my breath as my stomach clenches uncomfortably, forcing myself not to reveal too much despite every nerve within me firing off, begging and pleading for me to get up from the table andrun.
What are the chances this man has a secret torture chamber in his basement?
“Is there something you’re lacking?” he asks, his voice still perfectly even.
“I just… uh, didn’t pack as much as I thought I did when I left the U.S. I wasn’t really thinking ahead,” I mumble.
His stare holds mine a beat too long. His eyes are unreadable, cold in that particular way he’s perfected, watching me with the kind of precision that makes me feel like prey trying to walk calmly past a predator who hasn’t decided yet whether to kill me or let me live.
When he gives the smallest nod, he sets his tablet down and takes another sip of his coffee like nothing about this interaction has struck him as unusual. I don’t exhale until he goes back to scrolling.
“I’ll have my driver take you,” he says simply.
And that’s it.
I clench my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling. The relief is sudden and overwhelming, but it doesn’t settle like it should. It just coils tighter in my stomach like some vague warning I don’t exactly understand.
I know lying to him is probably the worst decision I can make right now, but it’s the only thing I can use as a weapon to protect myself.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, trying not to sound too eager.
He doesn’t reply.
