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“Alive.”
“And my mother?”
“The same. Can I get the fuck out of here now before Kirill kills me for talking to you for too long wearing that?” Max averted his eyes to the top of my head.
Right. I was wearing one of Kirill’s sex doll fantasy outfits.
“Fine, but I’ll need an update again soon,” I tossed to him.
The TV went on in the kitchen. Someone else was here. Max swore colorfully in Russian and headed for the front door.
I wandered into the kitchen to see a small, curvy lady in her sixties standing before the fridge. It was surprising to see a woman in Kirill’s thoroughly masculine space. Since I’d been here, I’d only seen tough-looking men who could play serial killers or mercenaries in movies without visiting the wardrobe trailer once.
She looked at me, blinked once, and crossed herself like she’d spied a demon breaking into the room. I looked down, remembering the white gauzy Victorian gown was see-through. With my white-blonde hair down and my pale skin that barely saw the sun, I probably looked like a ghost.
“Hi, I’m Mallory, and these aren’t my clothes. They’re Kirill’s.”
That sent the older lady’s eyebrows even higher. She crossed herself again and looked like she was rethinking her life choices. Then again, she was already making dodgy ones considering she was working for Kirill. This lady looked as if she’d wandered out of the local church and got confused.
I tried one last time. “He doesn’t wear them. He couldn’t because . . . have you seen him? He’s huge. Anyway, I meant he bought them for me as a gift,” I finished lamely.
She narrowed her eyes, and I waited for her to throw holy water at me. “Men never buy good gifts,” she said and turned to the fridge.
Well, okay. Thank goodness that awkwardness was over.
“I’m Olga. I’m to cook for you. Kirill Viktorovich said you’re too thin and cold all the time.”
I was taken aback. I thought his insistent feeding last night was more about fucking me than a genuine attempt to get me to eat. The idea that he was worried I wasn’t taking care of myself warmed me a little.
“My coldness toward him has nothing to do with temperature,” I said, jumping up on the counter and rooting through her bag.
She smacked my hand away with a sharptsk. “Don’t pick. I’ll make you something. You need protein and fiber.” She eyes me worriedly like I was in danger of fading away before her eyes.
“I’m fine. Everyone loses weight after high school,” I teased, making light of the truth. There had been many nights I skipped dinner in the last few years.
I recalled Kirill and his sandwiches wistfully. It felt like another life.
Olga narrowed her eyes at me. “He didn’t tell me you’re a joker.”
I laughed.“What did he tell you I was?”
Olga bustled about, muttering so softly I almost didn’t catch it. “An important guest.”
I wrinkled my nose. “A guest? Nice. I guess you didn’t ask too many questions?”
Would Olga let me out? I’d told Kirill I’d decided to stay, but it was interesting to find out what kind of people he trusted enough to let them interact with someone who was his prisoner.
“My job isn’t to ask questions. I do what Kirill Viktorovich asks. He’ll tell me what I need to know,” she said with perfect confidence.
“Wow, that’s some loyalty. What does he have on you?”
She frowned at me. “Excuse me, Miss, but we don’t know each other, so I won’t be telling you that. I owe him a debt that can never be repaid. If he needs me to feed you, hold you down, or tie you up and force food down your gullet, I’ll do it.”
Well, that was a conversation killer.
* * *
Olga wasn’t finishedwith me. A few hours later, she called me to come and eat. After, she handed me a variety of pills in a small cup.
