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Maxim gets out and walks to the elevator. I watch him go and consider running away. I could make it to the top of the entrance ramp, but he’d catch me and drag me back, and I suspect it would only make things worse.
I have to play along. He’s not lying when he says this is dangerous. I’ve heard a lot about the Novalov family, and everything I’ve heard is either horrible or absolutely frightening. It’s like I’m exchanging one viper’s nest for another, even bigger one. And in this one, all the snakes are twice as big and ten times hungrier.
I get out, my arms hugging myself. Maxim calls the elevator and we step on together. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and I stare back at him in the reflection in the elevator wall. It lurches to a start and slides up, moving past floors at a fast clip. My stomach sinks, and I wonder what Mira’s doing.
I hope Zita isn’t torturing her. Though I suspect my father will have some choice words for his madam. I smile a little at that.
We reach the fortieth floor and the doors slide open into a dim foyer with marble floors, wood paneling on the walls, and a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling. To the left is a small sitting and waiting area with nondescript chairs and couches set up around a wood-burning fireplace, and ahead is a spiral staircase. Paintings hang on the walls, dour things, like something you’d see in a museum dedicated to really depressed people.
Maxim grabs my hand. “Don’t stop,” he says and we march forward, up the stairs. We twist along, and I catch a glimpse of a living room and a kitchen and a big table before we head up to the third floor. Maxim yanks me down a side hallway, walking so fast that I have to jog to keep up, until we reach a door toward the back of the building. He yanks it open and we stagger inside. He slams it shut and bolts it locked like he wants to keep some chasing beast from catching us.
I take a step back and look around.
It’s a quiet sitting room. There’s a TV above a fireplace, couches and chairs, comfortable blankets and pillows, and a small bar in the far corner. A hallway disappears toward more rooms. It’s masculine, mostly grays and browns and dark greens, but there are small soft touches: photos of Maxim and his four siblings, a greeting card tucked behind a carved wooden cat with its paw in the air, abstract expressionist art in bright colors on the walls. It’s similar to the other rooms I saw on our trip through the Kremlin, but different, more like… him.
Maxim pours a drink and offers it to me. I’m not in the mood, but I accept it anyway. “Sit,” he says, gesturing at the couch.
I sit and curl my legs up underneath me. I sip the vodka and force myself to swallow. It burns and makes my belly feel warm, and I don’t want it at all—it’s way too early in the morning to drink—but I figure it might help me get through today.
He takes his own drink and sits across from me. He stares without speaking, throws back half his glass, and lets out a long sigh.
“I’ll get you clothes,” he says. “For now, stay here.”
“Am I your prisoner then?”
“No. You’re my mistress.”
“Can I leave whenever I want?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
I ask a different one. “What about your family? Can I talk to them?”
“Yes, you’ll have to. But be careful when you do. Don’t mention the deal I made with your father.”
“Will they know who I am?”
He considers and nods. “It’s better if we’re as honest as we can be.”
“So you’ll tell them that I worked at a whorehouse?” I say it with a smile, but he looks appalled.
“Absolutely not, they will not understand.”
“Relax, I’m kidding.” I sip my drink again before putting it down on the end table. “But I do want to go back and see the girls soon.”
He hesitates, but nods. “We can do that eventually. I still have business with your father.”
I look around. “This is it then? This is my home for the foreseeable future?”
He stands and stares down at me with a mixture of anger and desire. “This might be your home for the rest of your life,” he says and walks to the door. He finishes his drink and places the empty glass down on a table. “Stay here and don’t move.”
He disappears outside.
I stare at his empty glass.
My home forever.
He’s right. If we do go through with this marriage, I’ll be stuck here in the Kremlin with these people.
With the Novalov family.
I stand and pick up one of the photos. Maxim’s younger in it, maybe two or three years younger. The girls are pretty in that extremely Russian way, while the boys are both square-jawed and serious, but very handsome. Maxim doesn’t quite fit with the other four—he looks somewhat different. Like he’s a cousin instead of a brother.
