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Taking a roll of Tums from his pocket, he pops the pill from its casing and slips it onto his tongue. The more he thinks about it, the more Oleg believes it will not only be the best solution, but also a blessing in disguise. Let Bes do him the favor of getting rid of the ever-present threat of Vladimir. And once Bes himself is dealt with, no one will ever know the truth.
When Oleg walks back to his wife and children, his heartburn is already fading.
8
Kate
When I wake up the next morning, the bed beside me is empty. A sliver of light falls through the crack in the bed curtains.
Pushing up on one elbow, I pull one curtain aside. Daylight spills through the windows. The bedsheets are wrinkled. I lay a palm on Alex’s pillow. The fabric is cool, but his scent clings to the linen.
I drag a breath of cardamom and spices into my lungs. Even in his absence, his presence lingers in the room. The events of last night weigh heavily on my chest. Folding my arms around my knees, I take a moment to reflect on our fight.
He’d come to bed long after midnight with vodka on his breath. I pretended to be sleeping, but the soft “goodnight” he whispered told me he knew I was awake. He respected my wish and kept his distance, not touching me during the night. I was both grateful and disappointed, and there was a moment when I almost gave in. In the scary, lonely hours of the early morning, I wanted to snuggle against him and throw an arm over his waist. A part of me wanted to anchor him to the bed, to prevent him from going out there, where it’s dangerous. But another part of me couldn’t—can’t—forgive him. I don’t know how to make peace with our new circumstances. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be any longer. Our roles have changed, and I’ve yet to figure out where and how I fit into his life.
Am I his girlfriend or his prisoner?
Does he see me as a woman he cares about or merely his possession?
Ugh. I need to think, but my mind is clouded with confusion and emotions. Climbing from the bed, I go to the bathroom. The cupboards are stocked with all my usual brands of toiletries, and a box of contraceptive pills waits on the vanity. I pull out the sheet of pills. The pills have been popped out on the days of the month that have passed. It’s not a new box. Alex thought about everything when he instructed Marusya to pack. I take today’s pill and have a quick shower, which doesn’t clear my head as I hoped it would.
The closet is stocked with many of the clothes Alex bought for me in New York, including formal wear and evening dresses. Thank goodness Marusya packed some of my own outfits at the bottom of the bag. With the way I feel, I need clothes that are familiar and comfortable.
After dressing in a pair of jeans, a warm sweatshirt, and my sneakers, I venture downstairs. The only sounds that greet me are the dong of the grandfather clock, announcing that it’s ten in the morning, and the clanging of pots coming from the back of the house.
Finding the dining room empty, I walk to the kitchen.
Tima stands behind the stove. Pots simmer on the burners, steam rising from their contents. The space smells starchy, like porridge and potatoes.
“There you are,” he says, wiping his hands on an apron. “Take a seat.” He motions at the kitchen table where fruit, rye bread, jam, and cottage cheese are set out. “I thought it would be cozier to have your breakfast here than in the stuffy old dining room.”
Grateful for his consideration, I plop down in a chair. “Thank you.”
He goes to a counter set with several urns and flashes me a smile from over his shoulder. “Tea, coffee, or hot chocolate?”
“Coffee, please.” I need the caffeine to clear the cobwebs in my mind.
“One coffee with sugar coming up.”
It’s not surprising that he knows how I drink my coffee. He prepared only vegetarian dishes last night. Alex must’ve briefed him on my preferences.
When he places a mug in front of me, I ask, “What are you cooking?”
“Borscht with pelmeni for lunch and roasted lamb with potatoes for dinner. That’s for the men. I’m making vegetarian versions for you.” He goes back to the stove, picks up a bouquet of fresh herbs, and chucks it into one of the pots. “You can never start the preparations too early. I also made oatmeal porridge. Alex told me you like to have oatmeal for breakfast.”
I cup the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “That’s very considerate.”
He serves a helping of the porridge into a bowl and carries it to the table. “It’s the least I can do.” Pushing a small basket of berries and a pot of honey toward me, he studies my face. “How are you doing today?”
