One eyebrow rises. “You are welcome.”
He doesn’t move closer. I glance around the Florricks’ yard, noting the ajar gate that normally covers a gap in the hedges. No other men. No discarded weapon. His words sound genuine, albeit disgruntled.
I allow myself to consider he’snothere to hurt me, yet his haughty tone prevents that from being a bigger relief. If he hadn’t grabbed me, I could have celebrated successfully saving myself rather than being thrust into a stronger state of fear.
“I wasfine,” I reply defiantly. I’m not sure it’s the full truth, but I make it sound convincing.
“Mm-kay.” There’s no mistake he’s mocking me now. “Nice swimming.”
My mouth drops open in outrage. “I can’t swim.”
“No?” His surprise is feigned, I’m certain. That crooked grin is still in place.
“Whatever,” I mumble.
Other emotions are crumbling under embarrassment. Not because I can’t swim, but because a hot guy tried to help me float and Ibithim. A stark reminder of what I was taunted by all day—I’ll never fit in, never be normal. Always be haunted by the past.
“Why not?” he asks, turning serious.
“What?”
He tilts his head left, studying me more intently than I’m comfortable with. “Why can you not swim?”
“Oh. I don’t—I just never learned.”
“Okay. Learn now.”
I blink rapidly. Tonight is becoming more bizarre by the second. “I—what?”
“Is easy. Start by kicking.”
I stare at him, too taken aback to speak. It’s the middle of the night, I’m wearing pajamas, we’re total strangers, andI nearly just drowned. My shaking muscles suggest I’m not physically capable of learning how to swim right now. Also, I’d really like to get out of this pool.
Yet I don’t leave.
And later, when I sneak back into my bunk, I accept it was fascination, not fear, that made me stay.
SEREBRYANOVO
Most people enjoy returning home.
When I enter Serebryanovo, I’m greeted by a bone-deep sense of dread. All I want is a shower, a glass of vodka, and solitude. But my name is barked the second I step into the entryway by the man who has unfettered access to the security logs. No one enters or leaves this property without thepakhan’s permission.
So, I veer left instead of upstairs, entering my father’s office a minute later.
The study always smells the same—like leather and smoke. Igor Sokolov has a weakness for smuggled cigars. His other main vice? Women younger than his sons.
His office never looks the same. He changes his mind constantly on allowing the maids access. Someone was in here recently because every surface is spotless. The rug is replaced regularly, furniture shuffled to accommodate different dimensions. My father claims to avoid conducting that type of business in here, and yet …
I glance down.
New rug. Larger. Darker. Neither will matter. Bloodstains are difficult to scrub out of fibers, and rolling makes disposal easier.
Sometimes, Igor is alone in an armchair by the crackling fire. Tonight, there’s a woman lounging on the matching couch. She’s young, blonde, and beautiful—exactly his type.
“How did it go?” my father asks. Eyes on the lit cigar in his left hand, not on me.
I sent detailed reports the entire week I was away. I’ve yet to decide if Igor’s habit of questioning me the second I return is his way of saying he’s happy I’ve returned or if it’s a reminder that I’ve been shifted back down the hierarchy.
