Page 60 of Nemesis

I ruffle her damp head, realizing her hair is still tangled in a million interconnected knots.

“I couldn’t untangle it with one hand,” she admits.

“Turn around.” I slide onto the bed behind her.

My fingers move through the ends of her wine-red strands, pulling them free from the ends to the roots. She’s so close, I can feel every little twitch of her neck. A drop of water falls to my skin, rolling down my wrist.

“You’re…um…good at this,” she whispers as I work.

“Lots of practice. You should see the carnage of my sister’s hair after a single night of sleep. I swear, she must be fighting demons.” The memory brings a soft smile to my lips. I hope I can talk to her soon—I’ve missed quite a few of our daily phone calls now, and I don’t want her to worry.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Octavia murmurs with real enthusiasm.

It does something funny to my chest. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the emotion.

Maybe she feels the change in the air, too, because a low cough clears her throat. “So, what else did you find out this morning?”

I keep working through her tangles, freeing more strands. “Seems like we’re in a designated safehouse. All of the surrounding residences are vacant, and there wasn’t much car traffic throughout the night.”

“Isn’t my father based in Chicago? Why wouldn’t he just take us there? It’s hardly across the country, and they wouldn’t have to go through all this safehouse nonsense.”

“I was wondering the same,” I say, running through my thoughts from this morning.

“You think he’s hiding something.”

It’s a statement, not a question. She’s quick. I can’t believe she thinks dance could be the only thing she’s good at.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

She hums in consideration, drumming her left hand against her thigh. “So how do you think we should play this?”

The question throws me off. She’s asking for input again. It’s as though we’re a partnership, just me and her against the world.

In all the years I worked under my uncle, he never once invited my opinion. I was just a soldier to him; another body following his orders. I hadn’t spent much time with Solokov before this mess, but I had expected to hold the same position of mindless servitude.

I don’t think Octavia understands the weight of her trust, not as it falls on my shoulders like a warm blanket in a blizzard. A soft tap against my thigh brings me back to the present, reminding me that she asked a question.

“I think we have two options. We could bide our time and try to collect more information⁠—”

“Who knows how much time we have before the next move? People don’t usually stay long in safehouses, right?”

I nod. “It’s likely we’ll be moving to a second location today, which strips us of even more control.”

My fingers continue to mindlessly comb through her wet hair, even though I’ve finished detangling all the knots. I think she likes it too, since her head’s tilted back to give me more access. Sitting here on the bed with her head relaxed into my hands, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so peaceful in my entire life. The violent voices have gone dormant in my mind, pleased to take a back seat to my new career in hairstyling.

“So, if we can’t risk going to a new location, what’s the second option?” she asks, leaning back into my touch.

I grin when she looks back at me.

“A good old-fashioned shakedown.”

My fingers drum against the arm of the worn leather seat. Rough strands of fabric tug at my skin, snapping off the upholstery. The office is decorated sparingly; stacks of nondescript books and decorative candlesticks are strung about in bland order, forming an eclectic style that reflects little of the man who owns the space. In fact, I think the only remotely personalized item here is the tall bottle of vodka balancing on the bar cart beside us.

My father sits back in his own chair on the other side of the desk with my newfound uncle hovering beside him. I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to him much. The sour scent of nicotine seems to seep from every item in the room, as if baked in years of cigarettes and business deals. I wonder how many times this safehouse has been used.

My back heats from the weight of my shadow, though I don’t dare to steal a look. Vasiliy stands guard behind my seat, one hand a burning stamp between my shoulder blades. It gives me a hardy boost of confidence.

“So, daughter.” My father’s voice cracks through the room with the weight of a whip. “What did you wish to discuss?”