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Pale blue tiles with geometric gold patterns cover the floor. The sink is a single piece of black porcelain, curved like a shell, the faucet the same glimmering inky pitch. Cobalt wallpaper makes the fluffy white towels stand out like clouds in a stormy sky. But my interest is in the shower. I make a beeline for it, studying the walk-in space that’s the size of my bedroom at home.
Turning the long handle that starts the spout, I strip my clothes off, discarding them on the floor. Before the steam gets going, I’m under the water. The pressure dances on my sore muscles, eliciting a pleased groan.
I might hate Arsen, but I don’t hate his house.
There are small bottles of expensive shampoo set on a shelf in the wall. Scrubbing my hair, then my skin, I stay under the water until my fingers wrinkle. Here, I can pretend—just for a while—that I didn’t just have my life thrown into a garbage disposal. I can pretend that I haven’t just been kidnapped or that I’m worrying about murderers and stalkers or about how I’ll save my mother. Nothing exists but the hot air cloying into my lungs. It cleanses me, and lets me melt into bliss.
I’m waterlogged by the time I turn the tap off. Wrapping my hair in one towel, I dry myself with a second. The mirror is fogged up, which I prefer; I don’t want to look at myself. Right now, I want to keep pretending I’m not Galina Rubinova. I’m nothing but a pair of tired legs wandering over a cool tile floor.
The bedroom air assaults me with a chill. Finding a heavy robe, I belt it into place. Why is it so cold? My attention goes to the window. I didn’t shut it tightly earlier, when I was exploring for a way out. Moving to the curtains, I start to push the sill. But movement outside stops me.
Far below in the driveway, I see two figures. One is Ulyana. The other is Arsen. He’s leaning on the Escalade. I can see his face, but not hers. Goose bumps rise on my arms as I watch. Carefully, I lift the window higher. It’s no good. I can’t hear what they’re saying.
As I watch, Arsen smiles mildly at the older woman. She reaches out, taking his hand gently. It’s a kind touch, the way a mother would reach for her son. He doesn’t shake her off. Marveling at their moment of tenderness, I lean my cheek on the glass to see better.
I notice Ulyana motion. She’s pointing … up at my room. Arsen lifts his eyes, sending me dodging sideways behind the curtains. My veins pulsate, and suddenly the cold room feels as hot as the shower. Did he see me? No, the curtains would have blocked the view.
His dark, piercing eyes swim through my vision. I shut my own eyes, but I can still see them. Arsen has a way of looking through you. He shreds your defenses with a mere glance, until you’re exposed at his pleasure without any secrets to hide. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. I close the window fully. When I take one final glance out of it, the two of them are gone.
He acted so nice to her. Why? Thumping heavily onto the bed, I flatten out, gazing at the canopy above. It doesn’t matter. He’s a monster. He wouldn’t deny that fact, so why should I? It bothers me, though, that Ulyana is so comfortable with him. I want to hate her the way I hate Arsen; it’s harder to do that. She’s strict and mysterious, but my intuition tells me she’s not a bad person.
Forget thinking like that, I scold myself. Grabbing a pillow, I flop it over my face. Arsen’s eyes still linger, the way staring at the sun creates a lasting impression behind your eyelids. You can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone who works for him. Don’t be an idiot, Galina!
As I sink into the soft embrace of the bed, I make a vow to myself:
No matter what happens in this place, no matter what he promises or tempts me with …
I will refuse to submit to Arsen.
9
ARSEN
THE NEXT NIGHT
Water runs in fast circles around my feet. Some of it gets in my eyes, blurring my vision. It doesn’t stop me from watching the drain. It’s easy to imagine myself washing away more than just sweat or dirt in this pristine place. The truth is, even if the water runs clear, my sins aren’t gone. Nothing can wipe them from my soul.
She hates me, but she agreed to dinner. I remember Galina’s face this morning when I came to her door, and how she glared at me through the crack. The thought draws a dark laugh from my throat. She is wild. I have a feeling if I’d stepped into her room, she would have tried to attack me. There are no weapons in there; I made sure of that. But still … I wouldn’t put it past her to have found something suitable outside of her bedroom, tucking it away until I came to see her.
Galina has claws; that doesn’t make her foolish enough to use them. Bracing my palms on the pure white tiles of my shower, I arch my face upward into the hot spray. How fun it would have been if she had tried though. I could have fought the weapon from her grip … yanked her close … pinned her to the bed.
She’s bait, nothing more. I have to keep my focus on my goal. Nothing else matters. Shutting off the water, I grab a fluffy black towel from a hook, drying myself as I step onto the plush rug. In the fogged-up mirror, I see my thick muscles, most of them marred by scars, and the rest saturated in ink.
The tattoos cloak me from my fingers to my elbows. The knives look real enough that when touching them, you’d expect them to cut you. On my shoulders and knees are the eight pointed stars of a pakhan. They are what separates me from the rest of the Bratva: I kneel to no one. Bending sideways, I study my back in the mirror. The spider facing upward would warn away anyone who grasped the meaning. But it’s the other art that tells the story.
For a moment I run my left hand across my spine, tracing the intricate lines that create the massive back piece. The Orthodox Church tattoo took multiple hours to complete, but the things I did to earn it took years.
My reflection watches me grimly. Everything you’re doing is necessary. This is how it has to be. There was never any other path to take. Consoling myself with these facts doesn’t remove the weight of them. Tossing the damp towel into the hamper, I stand naked except for one thing. I never remove my prayer beads, not even for a second.
Stepping into my attached master bedroom, I see the outfit laid out on my bed. I chuckle at the sight of it—Ulyana can’t resist meddling. Why else would she iron my best three-piece suit? The fabric is dark enough that it sucks in all light from the lamps like a black hole. The only color is the gold tie coiled on top like a cobra. I dress with precision, until all that’s left is to slide on my polished shoes.
I wonder what Galina will wear. It’s a pointless thought. Our meal is about settling her nerves and convincing her she must rely on me. It’s the only way to prime her for the next part of my plan. Still, my mind conjures up memories of how she looked last night when we met for drinks. Her sweater-dress clung to her curves, the front straining over her chest with every annoyed breath she took. I’ve never met someone who can be so effortlessly sexy when they’re pissed off at me.
Checking the time, I stroll into the hallway, moving through my mansion with casual speed. It’s a huge building, but it doesn’t feel empty. When I listen closely, the tell-tale footsteps of my multiple staff are easy to discern. Some, like the cleaners, try to remain unobtrusive as they go about their work. My guards are a mix of in plain sight and hidden. The balance is good; if you see one armed man, you’re less likely to notice the three others in the shadows.
And she’s here too.
Glancing down the hallway toward her room as I pass, I wonder if Galina has tried to break out yet. I could ask and learn the answer—I’ve got eyes on her at all times—but I decide to save that question. The explanation will be more interesting if it comes from her perfectly kissable lips.
