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At a distance, it was easy to dismiss my imaginings about him being dangerous.
Up close, it’s infinitely harder.
“Hi, Daddy.”
The sound of that small, high-pitched voice jolts me out of my trance—and it has an even stronger effect on Nikolai. Every muscle on his face tightens as his gaze jumps to the boy standing bravely at my side.
For a moment, father and son just stare at each other. Then Nikolai slowly goes down on one knee.
“Hi,” he says hoarsely as a medley of emotions plays across his face. “Hi, Slavochka.”
My heart clenches with a surge of warmth. That version of the boy’s name is an endearment; I’ve heard enough Russian over the past few days to know that.
Slava smiles uncertainly at his father before looking up at me.
“You did good,” I say huskily, smoothing my palm over his silky hair. “Just like Superman.” Smiling, I catch Nikolai’s gaze. “Tell him he did well.”
His face twists, something dark and agonizing flashing in his eyes before he regains control. “You did well,” he says to the boy tonelessly, and rising to his feet, he steps back, his expression shuttered once more.
Confused, I start to speak, but he beats me to it.
“I need to talk to you,” he tells me in a hard voice, and taking my hand in an inescapable grip, he leads me to his office.
41
Chloe
My stomach churns and my pulse is sickeningly fast as he takes a seat across from me at the round table, his eyes filled with a darkness I can no longer convince myself stems solely from my imagination. No trace remains of the tender, seductive man I spoke to for so many hours over video, a man who was so open about his feelings for me. In his place is a beautiful, terrifying stranger, his face taut with fury.
The worst part is I have no idea what I’ve done, what happened to upset him so. Was it what Slava said? Or my clumsy suggestion that he praise the boy for—
“You lied to me, zaychik,” he says in a lethally soft tone, and my heart plummets to my feet.
I was wrong.
This has nothing to do with Slava.
It’s infinitely worse.
I gulp in a breath. “Nikolai, I—”
He holds up a hand, then opens a laptop that I just now notice is on the table. “Watch this,” he orders, turning the screen toward me.
I watch—and what I see turns my blood to icy slush.
It’s me, that day in Boise.
The day they openly shot at me.
There’s nothing more damning that Nikolai could’ve come across, no incident that speaks more clearly of the danger I pose to his family—a danger I haven’t let myself think about in any real way, focusing instead on my situation, my survival. It’s only now, with that grainy video in front of me, that I comprehend just how thoughtless, how selfish I have been.
I have two violent killers after me, and here I am, playing dress-up in the clothes he bought for me, pretending I’m safe in a compound he built for his son, a bright, sweet child I’ve already grown to adore.
A child who’s in danger every second I’m here.
I’d blocked that out of my mind somehow, along with the crushing terror of that day, but I can do so no longer. Trembling, sick inside, I rise to my feet. “Nikolai, I’m so, so sorry. I’ll leave. I’ll go right now—”
“Sit.” His voice is even softer, a frightening contrast to the savage ferocity in his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“But—”
“Sit.”
My knees buckle underneath me, obeying his command.
He leans in, his gaze pinning me in place. “I want the truth. The full truth. Understand?”
I nod, even though I’m crumbling on the inside, all my hopes and dreams crashing around me.
I will tell him.
I will tell him everything.
After all the lies, he deserves the truth.
42
Chloe
“It all started when I drove home after my college graduation,” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice steady. “I was supposed to arrive in time for dinner, but the traffic was unusually heavy and I was almost an hour late. As soon as I found a parking spot in front of our building, I ran to the apartment, leaving my suitcase in the car. I figured I’d come back for it after we ate.
“I had my keys, so I came in and went directly to the kitchen, where I thought Mom was warming up some of the food. But when I got there—” I stop to swallow the lump threatening to overtake my throat.
“She was dead,” Nikolai guesses grimly, and I nod, hot tears stinging the back of my eyes.
“She was lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, her wrists slit. I couldn’t feel a pulse, so I ran to get my phone—I was in such a rush I forgot my purse with the phone in the car. But before I could exit the apartment, I heard voices, male voices, coming from Mom’s bedroom.”
