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I need it to be, so I can plan my escape.
“I forgot to tell you,” Peter says as I’m finishing up my salmon. “Yan got you a bunch of clothes. They’re over there.” He nods toward the entryway, where, for the first time, I notice several shopping bags.
“Oh, thanks.” Suppressing a yawn, I push my empty plate away and get up. I have no intention of being here long enough to need that many clothes, but I do need shoes and warm basics for escape. “I’ll check them out right now.”
Peter gets up and starts clearing the table while I sort through Yan’s purchases. All the tags show bigger sizes than I’m used to, but the clothes look like they’ll fit me, so I must be a Medium or a Large among the petite women of Japan. The shoes are the right size too. I try them on right away, excited to find a pair of comfortable sneakers and warm boots, along with less practical sandals and high-heeled pumps.
“Does your colleague think I’m going to be going out clubbing?” I ask Peter when I go through the rest of the bags and find some equally impractical dresses in addition to common-sense basics like yoga pants, jeans, sweaters, and T-shirts. There’s underwear too, most of it lacy and pretty, and a couple of slinky silk nighties—a man’s idea of what a woman would wear to bed.
“Yan is good with clothes, so I told him to get whatever he thought was best,” Peter says, grinning as I hold up a low-cut tank top that wouldn’t look out of place at a summer beach bash. “I guess he went a little overboard with some items.”
“Uh-huh.” I stuff everything back into the bags and grab a couple, about to lug them to the closet upstairs, when Peter comes up to me and snatches them out of my hands.
“I’ve got it,” he says, picking up the rest, and I watch, bemused, as he carries all the bags upstairs.
This is yet another example of his extreme solicitousness, I realize as I follow him up the steps. Back home, not only would Peter free me from all chores when I was tired, but he also wouldn’t let me carry anything heavier than a plate of food when he was around. I don’t know if he thinks I’m incapable of lifting a shopping bag, or if someone taught him to always carry things for women, but it definitely adds to the sense that he’s pampering me.
When he’s not drugging, kidnapping, or threatening me, that is.
“Was this a part of your upbringing at the orphanage?” I ask, following him into the bedroom walk-in closet, where he puts the bags down and starts hanging up my clothes next to his. “When you were a boy, did someone instruct you on how to be a gentleman or something along those lines?”
Peter stops and looks at me, eyebrows raised. “You’re kidding, right?”
I frown and reach for one of the bags, taking out a sweater to fold. “No, why?”
He laughs darkly. “Ptichka, do you have any idea what orphanages in Russia are like?”
I bite my lip as I put the sweater on the shelf next to me. “No, not really. I’m guessing not so good?”
He resumes hanging up the clothes. “Let’s just say that gentlemanly behavior wasn’t high on my list of priorities when I was a child.”
“I see.” I should be helping Peter, but all I can do is stare at him, struck by how little I still know about the man who’s taken over my life so completely. I know he was raised in an orphanage—he told me he ended up in a juvenile prison camp after he killed the headmaster of that orphanage—but that’s as far as I’ve gotten, and all of a sudden, it’s not enough.
I want to know more about Peter Sokolov.
I want to understand him.
“What happened to your family?” I ask, leaning against the closet doorframe. “Did you ever know your parents?”
“No.” He doesn’t pause in his methodical unpacking of the bags. “I was left on the doorstep of the orphanage as a newborn. They think I was three or four days old at the time. Their best guess is that my mother came from one of the nearby villages. She might’ve been a schoolgirl who fooled around and got pregnant or something along those lines. I didn’t show any signs of fetal alcohol syndrome, and I tested negative for drugs, so that ruled out prostitutes and such.”
“And no one’s ever come forward to claim you?” I ask, trying to ignore the painful squeezing in my chest. I don’t know why, but picturing this dangerous man as an abandoned newborn makes me want to cry.
Peter lowers the hanger he’s holding and gives me a mildly surprised look. “Claim me? No, of course not. No one claims the kids at those places—that’s why they’re called orphanages. Well, nowadays, rich foreigners like to pop in and adopt a baby or two if they can’t have brats of their own, but that wasn’t the case when I was growing up.”
