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Olesya’s arms are folded securely behind her back, and her elbows stick out from her side. “How can we help you, miss?”
Not used to giving commands, I fumble a bit. The words come out in a jumble. “I’d like—if it’s okay—some French toast.”
Olesya lights up like I gave her amazing news. “Of course!” She scurries to the fridge, gathering ingredients with the speed of an expert. Ulyana catches my eye—she motions at the table. Catching the hint, I sit down, still watching Olesya with interest.
She zips around the kitchen with familiarity, grabbing bowls, a whisk, a container of flour. Setting down a thick loaf of bread, she nimbly carves generous slices. Her petite size hides immense strength; her forearms tense as they heft a cast iron skillet off a wall hook, setting it on the stove.
Ulyana bends close to my ear. “In the time it would have taken you to find the bread, she’s made a batter to dip the French toast in.”
I bite back a retort. She’s not wrong, but it galls me. “Excuse me, mistress,” Varya says, holding up two baseball-sized oranges. “Would you like some fresh juice?”
Fighting down my instinct to say no, I nod politely. “Please.”
Eager to help, the young woman rushes to the other side of the kitchen. Using an old cone-shaped juicer, she crushes the fruit onto it by hand. The room fills with a mix of delicious scents: citrus, sugar, hot butter.
Twirling toward me like a dancer, Olesya places a flat white dish stacked with two fat slabs of French toast coated in powdered sugar in front of me. “Here,” she says, setting a silver urn beside the fork and knife. “Syrup, if it’s not sweet enough.”
“Your juice, mistress.” Varya puts a mason jar–sized glass of bright orange juice by my left elbow. The pair stands back, watching me like two puppies that want a treat.
Ulyana nudges my foot under the table. “Uh, thank you.” It comes out emphatically because I really am thankful. “You two did a great job.” Cutting into the French toast, I place it in my mouth. It’s tender, with just enough resistance to keep it from being soggy. Swallowing it is pure heaven. “Wow. This is so good.” I wash it down with the juice, then gasp. “This is amazing too!”
The girls beam at me, then each other.
I eat a few more bites before I notice they’re keenly observing me. With a weak smile, I wave my fork in a tiny circle. “Please don’t watch me eat. You can go. Thanks again.”
Curtsying, the pair hurries out of the room. Ulyana stares at me as I eat, ignoring what I just said to the others about not wanting to be watched.
When I’m mopping the plate with the final bite of bread, she lets out a tired sigh. “We have a lot of work to do.”
Oh, she thinks I have bad manners. I had a teacher like her once in school. An old crone who would scold me for being sloppy. In retaliation, I chew the last of the French toast aggressively, then chug the juice. I set the glass down loudly. It’s an immature reaction, but I hate having my habits picked apart.
“I think I did fine. They did what I asked, and I only felt like a little bit like a brat for commanding them.”
“You shouldn’t feel anything negative about this, Galina.”
“Yeah, well, I do.” Lifting my dishes, I head to the sink.
“Nyet!” Ulyana glares openly at me. “That’s a task the future wife of the pakhan should delegate.”
“It sounds to me like needing people to do basic tasks would make me appear weaker.” I run water over the plate, rinse the glass, then put them in the dishwasher. They’re the only items in it. “I’ll do my best to play the role you’re telling me to, Ulyana, but don’t expect me to turn into a bossy bitch.”
Her mouth pops open. “Excuse me?”
“It’s pointless to act so offended; I know Arsen uses more foul language than me.”
That shuts her up. Her face tints red—I really got under her skin. Ulyana folds her hands daintily in her lap as she regains her composure.
“You have much to learn about the Bratva. It’s time I taught you the basics before you humiliate Arsen and the rest of his house.”
Perking up curiously, I settle back in my chair across from her. “We agree on something, for once. I’d love to learn more.”
“What would you like to know first?”
Presented with access to a trove of information I’ve been seeking since day one, my mind grows blank. Arsen’s dark underbelly of a world has been a whirlwind experience. I don’t know where to begin. Centering myself, I rack my brain until a single question arises. “He told me he’s the pakhan of the Grachev Bratva. What does that mean?”
Her eyes warm with sympathy. “If that’s a mystery to you, then you truly don’t know your situation. Arsen should have prepared you more.”
“You mean before he kidnapped me?” I remind her wryly. “Yeah, that would have been polite.”
