Page 14 of Ruined By Sin

"Thank you," I tell him as I straighten the collar of my blouse and slide my ballet flats on. The shoes don't exactly match the outfit, but they're all I have.

I wait for him to walk me down the way he did last night, but he holds the door open and nods toward the hallway like I'm a guest, not a prisoner. I hesitate, half expecting a catch, but he stays put. So I walk out alone.

It's a strange kind of freedom. The leash is longer today, my first hint that my story holds and Timur believes I really am a Belova.

I walk up the hallway, checking over my shoulder a few times, but still no guard. I imagine I could walk to the front door and try to walk out, but there is definitely a security system. I see the keypad on the wall. And if no one stopped me before I got out, the guy who stands outside the window of that bedroom is definitely out there waiting. I don't want to upset this delicate truce we seem to have formed, so I walk straight to the dining room.

Timur is already at the table when I get to the dining room, standing behind one of the chairs, which he pulls out when he sees me. There's a small glass vase in the center of the table with a handful of flowers in it that weren't there last night. It's nothing extravagant, just a few stems of delicate white flowers that look like they were cut from a garden, but it's sweet.

"Good morning," he says.

"Morning."

He waits until I'm seated before he sits down, and I notice he's shaved. His jaw is clean and his hair is pushed back from his face. And he smells good—a cloud of cologne hangs around him, sucking me in. This man isn't just remorseful for holding an ally's niece captive. He's using that remorse to try to butter me up. It puts me in a great position.

The table is set with bowls and small plates, thick golden kasha with butter melting into it and a stack of blini with a dish of sour cream beside it. A pot of coffee and two cups rests on the side of the table, and I sigh contentedly. It's the same way my mother used to make it.

For a second, I'm eleven years old sitting at our kitchen table as she stirs the pot and hums. The memory comes fast and leaves faster, but it takes a piece of me with it. It almost makes me feel uncomfortable, as if he truly believes he's wronged me to my core and wants to make amends in such a personal way.

"I hope this is alright," Timur says. "I asked Sonya to keep it traditional."

"It's perfect," I choke out, blinking back tears.

When my eyes rise to meet his there is a thoughtful, even hopeful expression on his face. I study it for a second while I'm trying to get my mind right. This is the sort of morning welcome a man offers to a woman he's brought home who woke after racy sex. Not the type of breakfast a man serves his captive.

"Here," he rushes out, almost with an embarrassed tone, as he serves me before he serves himself.

He spoons the kasha into my bowl and sets two blini on my plate, then pours my coffee first. His actions aren't as calm as they were last night or any other night before. He seemsa bit nervous, shaking hands, flustered, overly concentrated expression. Timur is acting flustered around me, like a school boy with a crush. It almost makes me smile.

"Thank you," I mumble, noticing how awkward our situation has suddenly become, whether because he has suddenly found me attractive and decided he's a man and I'm a woman... Or whether he's just that apologetic for the screwup he doesn't know is a total lie.

I take a bite and immediately think about my sister. She loves my mother's blini and kasha, and she doesn't know where I am. I look down into my plate and almost tear up. I want to call her so badly, it makes my chest ache, but asking for a phone right now would be pushing it. Besides, giving him a number that doesn't link back to a Belova phone would be suicide.

"This reminds me of my mother's cooking," I tell him as I take another bite and blink back more tears. He notices me dab them with my fingers but says nothing. I let him believe what he wants. Any other woman in this situation would be a bucket of tears right now.

"Yeah? She made kasha?"

I smile at the fond memory and let myself relax. "Every Sunday, she'd wake up before anyone else and have it ready by the time we came downstairs. My sister and I used to fight over who got the first bowl because she always put extra butter in that one."

Timur smiles and it changes his entire expression. His grey eyes almost look blue with those pearly whites showing. And he has a single dimple too, hidden by a scar but visible when he grins like that.

"Were you close with her?" he asks, and by his context I realize he has most certainly checked out my story. So the rumors about Nikolai's wife dying weren't just rumors. They're true, and I lied my way into a very tragic backstory. I feel a pinch of guilt as I sigh and force myself to think of my very alive mother as being dead, and the thought pushes very real tears from my eyes which I swipe away.

"Very," I say, smiling at him through my tears. Thinking of my mother in the past tense is hard. "She was the center of everything. When she died, the house just went quiet." I pause and push a piece of blini through the sour cream. "My father tried, but he's not the type to be nurturing. He just kind of moved through the days, and we moved with him."

"I understand that. My mother passed when I was young too. Different circumstances, but the pain is the same."

I look up at him, and something passes between us that I didn't expect. It's a connection building, a specific understanding that only people who've lost a parent young can share. Unfortunately, it's not real, but hopefully, by the time he realizes that, I'll be long gone. Still, it does make me feel sorry for his having lost his mother.

"My sister," I say, blowing on the next bite to cool it off, "she's older by four years. She stepped into the role and never complained about it. Even when I was awful to her, which I was because I was fourteen and angry at everything." I chuckle and then bite my lip, not sure what I'm getting myself into. I don’t know who these people are or if whoever Timur thinks I am even has a sister. I could be giving him the rope with which he can hang me.

"Sounds like a good person."

"She is."

The conversation finds a lull for a second and Timur refills my coffee without my asking. It's a thoughtful gesture, and I catch myself watching his hands. They're stained with tattoos that snake up his arms under his dress shirt. I see the faint outline of dark ink beneath the white and find myself wondering what's under that shirt entirely, his chest and back, if there are more tattoos, if he's toned or bronzed… It makes my cheeks flush.

But he starts talking and luckily, it's not about how flustered I must seem now with rosy cheeks and no ability to look him in the eye. "I want to be honest with you about the timeline," he says as he sets his cup down and meets my eyes. "There are things happening right now that I need to settle before I can safely let you go. I just have to make sure that your leaving doesn't create problems for either of us."