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Adrik wasn’t joking when he said there was room for my things—he’s got about six shirts in the wardrobe and not much else. He lives a minimalist life, that much is clear.
I’ll have to adjust to all this tidiness. I’ve been known to toss my clothes on the floor when I roomed with Nix, but I won’t do that here. It’s time to grow up, like my dad said—in more ways than one.
We’ve got our own bathroom, thank god. I don’t think I could stand sharing with Vlad.
I set my toiletries inside, my toothbrush next to Adrik’s and my shampoo in the tiny box of the shower. The bathroom has been renovated somewhat more than the rest of the house, but it still looks thirty years out of date, its pedestal sink cracked on one side, the brass faucets rusted. The tub is made of oxidized copper so heavy that the floorboards sag beneath it.
Unpacking completed, I shove the empty suitcase under the bed, then stand and wait, wondering if I’ll feel regret now that I’m settling into the reality of my situation.
Regret doesn’t come. Only a deep sense of exhaustion.
I’d planned to make use of that cramped shower. Instead, I sink onto the bed, burying my face in Adrik’s pillow. It smells of him—a scent I’ve tried a hundred times to isolate, without ever being able to name it. It comes to me in waves like colors—dark like a deeply steeped tea, with notes of heady sweetness, burgundy wine or black cherry. Then that head-spinning chemical edge that compels you to inhale again and again, even if you know it might be bad for you, or even toxic—testosterone like pure gasoline.
It’s that scent that makes me feel at home in this room. That chains me to this bed with no desire to ever leave it.
I fall asleep breathing him in, over and over and over.
* * *
I waketo the clanging of a cowbell. It echoes through the house, bringing scuffling feet, scraping chairs, and jumbled conversation into the kitchen below.
If I hadn’t been woken by the noise, the smell of beef stew might have done it. My gurgling stomach urges me out of the bed.
A glance in the mirror reveals smears of mascara under both eyes and a lopsided haystack of hair. I twist my hair up in a topknot and take a couple halfhearted swipes at my face with a damp cloth, too hungry for anything else.
By the time I get to the kitchen, everyone else is seated on the dual bench seats of the farmhouse table, including Adrik. He throws a look at Hakim, telling him to make room for me. I drop down between Andrei and Chief instead. I don’t need Adrik’s protection, not in this house.
Chief pushes me a basket of crusty bread, hard enough that it makes a sharp cracking sound when I tear off half a baguette. I dish stew from the tureen in the center of the table, ladling it into an earthenware bowl so heavy that I can hardly hold it in one hand. The stew is beef and vegetables, the broth thick as gravy.
“We take turns cooking,” Adrik tells me.
“I don’t cook.”
“Neither do Vlad or Hakim, but we eat the shit they make and we don’t complain.”
“Not even when Hakim makes goulash for the twenty-seventh time,” Andrei says, grinning across the table at Hakim.
“Fuck off,” Hakim grouses. “Took me long enough to learn to make that. I’m not fuckin’ Gordon Ramsay, am I?”
“You’re barely Sweeney Todd,” Andrei laughs.
“I will be if you keep it up,” Hakim says darkly. “You’re getting fat enough to make a good pie out of you.”
Andrei looks genuinely offended at this. “I’m not nearly as fat as Vlad. Am I, Vlad?”
He elbows his seat-mate in his generous flank.
Vlad shoots Andrei a look of such malevolence that Andrei’s grin morphs into a puckered mew, his blue eyes as round and startled as a schoolboy’s. Andrei scoots several inches to the left, knocking my elbow and dislodging the delectable chunk of beef I’d gotten within an inch of my mouth. In retaliation, I steal the rest of Andrei’s baguette.
While I loathe the idea of cooking for this pack of hyenas, I have to respect Adrik’s insistence on family dinners. Eating is a bonding activity, and if we weren’t forced to cook proper food, the house would soon become a wasteland of empty fast-food bags, with Andrei and Vlad as plump as Hakim claimed.
In truth, everyone at the table is admirably fit, ranging from Jasper’s lean and rangy muscle to Vlad’s bulk. There must be a gym close by, maybe at the house. I wonder if Adrik makes everyone work out together?
It can’t be worse than the workouts Ilsa used to put me through.
I catch Adrik’s eye as he takes a second helping of stew. He grins, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. There is no head or foot to this table—also intentional, I’m sure. Adrik calls his men “brother.” He avoids the appearance of authority. Yet they all wear his brand on their arm. They listen when he talks, and I assume they obey. Will he demand the same from me?
Conversation bounces back and forth across the table. Everyone here is younger than thirty, full of energy and crudity. Even Jasper smiles once or twice, though his chill is more complete than Vlad’s, directed at everyone, not just at me.
