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It’s not until the next morning that I realize that, contrary to my fears, I didn’t end up in Nikolai’s bed. Once more, he’d been the perfect nursemaid, taking care of me without demanding anything in return. Even the copious amount of alcohol hadn’t undermined his self-control—though I’m guessing the fact that I was more or less comatose when he brought me upstairs helped his resolve.
After that scene with his son, I turned to wine to manage my unruly emotions, and between that, the painkiller I took earlier in the day, and my still-healing body, I was basically a humanoid log.
Fortunately, I don’t have much of a hangover, so I make it to breakfast on time. To my relief—and more than slight disappointment—Nikolai isn’t there.
“On a call with Russia,” Alina explains. Like me, she doesn’t seem to be overly affected by the late-night festivities, and after breakfast, she joins me and Slava in our play lessons, even going so far as to chase her nephew in a game of tag despite wearing her usual uniform of a fancy dress and high heels.
“I have no idea how your toes don’t fall off,” I say, eyeing her stilettos, and she laughs, explaining that she’s so used to wearing such shoes that sneakers feel weird to her.
“Russian women pride themselves on being able to tolerate all sorts of discomfort in the name of beauty,” she tells me wryly. “It’s our long-suffering, masochistic nature. So while leggings and such have made inroads in my home country, you’ll have to pry our high-heeled shoes from our cold, dead feet.”
I laugh and drop the topic. I really do like Alina. Her beauty was so intimidating at first that it took me a while to see past it. Now that I have, I realize that a lot of her initial reserve was a form of self-protection. With her family the way it is, she needs her glossy, prickly façade to conceal her vulnerability—and the trauma she’s still recovering from.
* * *
Over the next few days, my wish of getting to know Alina better is fulfilled, partially because Nikolai has delegated much of my care to her. It’s now she who helps me get dressed and shower, though he’s still the one who changes the bandage on my arm when necessary.
I suspect it’s because as I’m getting better, he doesn’t trust his restraint to hold.
I don’t mind. Not only does this enable me to maintain some semblance of emotional equilibrium when I do see him, but Alina and I are developing a real rapport. With my ankle quickly improving and my arm finally out of the sling, we go on short hikes near the house—during which she does swap her stilettos for stylish boots—and we spend a lot of time with Slava, whose English is progressing with lightning speed.
I think it helps him to listen to me talk with Alina; he’s starting to pick up words and phrases I haven’t formally taught him.
The only fly in the ointment is Alina’s refusal to talk about what happened with her father—or in general expound on her family and her past. No matter how much I probe and pry, she discloses nothing, and with Nikolai avoiding me except during bandage changes and mealtimes, I’m no closer to getting answers.
In a way, I don’t mind this either. As much as I’m dying to understand how a man who’s becoming so openly affectionate with his son could’ve committed the terrible crime of patricide, not knowing all the details forces me to put it out of my mind. Same goes for the situation with Bransford; without any updates coming my way, I can go for hours, even days, without dwelling on the danger my biological father poses and what my future may hold.
These calm, easy days feel like an interlude out of time, a respite from the terrifying reality that is my life.
A respite that ends when the mystery girl arrives.
18
Chloe
Slava and I are in front of the house, observing three squirrels chasing one another from tree to tree, when the black pickup truck rolls up the driveway. The windows aren’t as darkly tinted as those of the deceased assassins’ vehicle, but I still freeze in place, ambushed by a flashback so intense I break out in a cold sweat.
“Chloe? Chloe, who is it? Who is it, Chloe?”
I blink at Slava, who’s tugging insistently at my sleeve, and force down the gruesome recollections of my Toyota getting smashed against the tree. I thought I was getting over what happened—even my nightmares have eased during these halcyon days—but I guess I was fooling myself.
I’m no more recovered from my trauma than Alina is from hers.
“Who is it?” Slava demands again, rocking back and forth on his heels as the truck comes to a stop some dozen feet from us. As both his English skills and his relationship with Nikolai have improved, he’s become much more of an assertive—and occasionally annoying—little boy, much to my delight.
