Her eyes came back to mine.
I put the phone on the dresser and stepped to the door. “Call him. Tell him you’re safe. Tell him whatever else you choose. I won’t listen outside the door. I will stand at the end of the hall where you can see me if you open it.”
She watched me as I left.
I walked to the end of the hall.
I kept my back to the room and my eyes on the city beyond the glass.
That was harder than violence.
The house was quiet around me. Below the floor, security moved in patterns I knew by silence, not sound. Somewhere beyond the glass, traffic crossed the city. My phone was in Nadia’s hand with access to numbers, names, and pieces of my world most men didn’t touch without permission.
I let her have it.
The guest room door stayed open a crack. Her voice came through only once, not the words, just the sound of Petya’s name.
It broke something in me more cleanly than the cracked glass at The Samovar Room.
A woman who had sold herself to save her brother should have been eating soup in a warm room while someone else carried the fear for once.
When she appeared in the doorway again, she wore the pale sweater and soft black pants. The sleeves covered half her hands. Her dark hair fell in loose, shining waves over her shoulders, still styled by the auction’s hands but less controlled now. Without the chemise, without the stage light, she looked more dangerous.
Mine, something in me said.
No.
Not yet.
Hers first.
She held out the phone. “He thinks I’m working a private event.”
“You lied well?”
“I’ve had practice.”
I took the phone without looking at the call history. “Is he home?”
“He’s home. He’s angry. He thinks I’m avoiding a lecture.” Her voice thinned. “He heard men outside the building.”
“My men.”
“That’s what I told him.”
I looked at her. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“I know.”
Her eyes moved over my face. “Do you?”
I slid my phone into my pocket. “Come back to the living room. You should finish the soup.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“You are hungry.”
