I stop fighting for half a second. Not because I trust him, but because of the way he says it. There’s no anger in his voice now. No impatience. No disgust. For the first time since he forced his way into my hotel room, I see something real in his face.
Fear.
Not the ordinary kind. Not embarrassment, not irritation, not wounded pride.
Real fear.
It sits in his eyes, making him look older than he did five minutes ago. Smaller too. My father, who has spent my whole life pretending the world bends for men like him, is standing in front of me looking like a man who knows exactly how breakable he is.
“Anya,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m in trouble.”
I stare at him.
For one stupid second, I almost laugh.
“You?” I say. “You’re in trouble?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t snap back.
That scares me more.
“Yes.”
I pull my wrist free from his hand. He lets me, which is another warning. Sergei Sokolov doesn’t let go unless he has already realized force will not solve the problem.
“What kind of trouble?”
He looks toward the door, then back at me. “The kind you don’t walk away from.”
My stomach turns cold. I sit slowly on the edge of the bed, because my legs suddenly feel weak. The cheap hotel room seems even smaller now, with the stained curtains, the buzzingbathroom light, the damp black dress hanging over the shower rail.
My father remains standing. For once, he doesn’t look disgusted by the room. He looks trapped in it with me.
“Tell me,” I say.
He rubs a hand over his mouth. “I owe money.”
I stare at him. That’s all?
For a moment, anger comes back so strongly it almost feels like relief.
“You owe money?” I repeat. “That’s why you broke into my room? That’s why you dragged me out of bed?”
“It’s not a small amount.”
“Of course it isn’t,” I say bitterly. “Nothing with you is ever small.”
“Anya.”
“No. Say it properly.” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. “How much?”
He hesitates.
That hesitation tells me everything before he speaks.
“Enough,” he says.
I stand again. “How much?”
