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But she will obey me.
We're endangered on all sides, and any move out of line could bring destruction and death to both of us. She will learn her place if I need to punish her night and day.
And hell, that would be no hardship. The very thought of restraining her again... punishing her... pushing her to the point of total loss of control... all of it appeals to me on primal level I can't deny.
But as we draw closer to the Istra, and I get closer to the cabin—our cabin, the one I occupied with Taya—I'm assaulted with memories. My Taya, decorating in her own unique way, with hand-sewn curtains, knotted throw rugs, and flower boxes in every window. She loved our little cabin. After her passing, I couldn't look around here without remembering her.
I still fucking can't.
I had it stripped of everything. Her clothes. The furnishings. Even the flower boxes were removed.
But I couldn't strip it of the memories if I tried.
We're on the last road that takes me to the cabin, when I realize Olena's been talking to me.
"Wow, so you're like a million miles away," she says.
I was.
"I'm not in the mood for idle chatter," I mutter. I issue a ragged command. "Be quiet."
Something flickers across her features, but she obeys.
I've been too friendly with her. I've given her hope that I could be something more than her jailor.
I've made a mistake.
We pull up to the clearing in the forest set apart from the deep thicket of trees and gravel road.
I've watched my rearview mirrors the entire time, and I'm confident we were not followed. I pull up in front of the cabin, the wheels crunching on gravel as I park, and for one brief horrifying moment, I imagine I can still see her, laughing with an armful of wildflowers while she trots up the step to decorate our home in nature's simple beauty. I close my eyes, and when I open them, the wisp of her image is gone.
"Stay here," I order. I have to investigate the cabin to be sure it's clear.
I step on the pathway to enter, and my stomach begins to clench. I can still hear Taya's laughter the day we moved in, still see her arms laden with books, her wavy brown hair clouding her vision as the wind blew. I picked her up in my arms, books and all, and carried her over the threshold. So when I reach the doorway, I pause. I take in a deep breath, holding Taya to me and all that we shared here. When I exhale, I release the memory of Taya.
Again. And fucking again.
The cabin is so barren of anything, it seems almost eerie, as if nothing but ghosts have inhabited it since I've had it vacated. I look toward the corner of the room where dust gathers and remember how we had the little book shelf just there. I glance toward the bedroom, now bereft of all but the roughly-hewn bed frame and remember our last night here. The way she cried when she said I had to go. How she couldn't bear to be with me anymore.
I shake my head.
That is a life I left. The old me—the one who showed sympathy and tenderness with the woman he loved, the one with a soft and affectionate side—died the day she did. I am no longer that man. Any show of mercy was ripped from me, like her fucking soul was ripped from her very body.
Taya is buried, and with her, our past. With her, the man I was.
And I have a fucking job to do.
There's no evidence of anyone or anything in here. I go back to the car, and Olena still sits in the passenger seat where I made her stay. I remove the groceries Demyan had put in the back of the car, and haul them into the house, shooting her a look to remind her to stay right there. We have a few days' worth of supplies. I deposit them just inside the front door to the cabin, and when I turn back to the car, Olena's opening the door and stepping out.
Christ.
"What do you think you're doing?"
She freezes, her eyes wide in surprise, one foot outside the door.
"What?"
"Did I give you permission to get out?"
Jesus Fucking Christ. Maybe Demyan is right. Maybe Olena does need a firmer hand. A tighter leash.
The woman needs to be brought to heel.
"Well, no..." she begins, and she gives me an abashed look with flushed cheeks that shows she knows she's in trouble.
"Fifteen," I snap, already clamping my hands together, eager to punish her so hard she learns her damn lesson. She clamps her mouth shut, her face no longer pink but beet red. The last time I spanked her, she came over my knee, and I'm sure she hasn't forgotten that.
