Chapter 10

Maybe it was the story Aiden told me about her past, the prostitution and the beating, but I wasn't expecting Mom to look so glamorous. It makes sense if she's married to a super-rich guy. She's lean and tall, with high cheekbones and gorgeous hair curled into an intricate pattern. She wears a long, flowy red dress. She looks like a princess.

"Ah, good, you've already met," Aiden's dad says, putting his arm over my mother's shoulder. "I'm Theodore, by the way, but my friends call me Teddy. Molly, this is, well, there's no use in beating around the bush. This is your daughter, Anna."

"Ania," I mutter, but I don't think he hears.

Aiden is leaning against the wall, off to the side, watching with a tight expression on his face.

"Anna?" Mom says. The tone of her voice immediately tells me that Aiden lied. He lied. She didn't know I was coming. "My … my … but what about her brothers? What about the Sokolovs?"

"Molly, this is a good thing."

When Theodore tries to touch Molly's arm, she waves her hand, swiping him away as she starts to pant. She looks shocked as she stares at her husband. She doesn't glance my way again, actively avoiding looking in my direction. Panic starts to hammer in my chest, wrapping around me like a coarse rope. I try to stay calm, but then Molly pushes Theodore away.

"She has to go," my mother says, sounding like she's finding it difficult to breathe. "She can't … You don't understand. Where are her brothers?"

"You don't need to worry about her brothers," Theodore says. "She's here to be with you. Your Anna."

"Her name's Ania, Dad," Aiden growls.

For a second, I'm almost grateful, but why should I be? He's the one who lied to me. He's the one who made me believe my mom would be happy to see me.

"Her name is Anna," Theodore says. "Your Anna, Molly. Your baby girl."

"Sh-she has to go."

My mother turns and walks away, almost running, honestly. I stare at her back. For a moment, I wonder if I'm about to cry, panic, or have a meltdown. It's like somebody has injected me with a numbing agent. There's nothing. There's just emptiness. She slams a door, and then Theodore looks at his son, me, and then back at his son.

"I told you," Aiden snaps. "It's too much to spring on a person. She needed a warning."

"I didn't think?—"

"That's the problem, Dad," Aiden snarls. "You don't think."

Aiden walks toward me, leaving his dad to gape at me. He reaches out as if to touch my arm. I say in a cold voice, "Don't touch me."

He takes a step back. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

"She just needs time to calm down," Theodore says.

"Maybe she does, but what are we supposed to do? Wait here until she's ready? Ania, it's time to leave."

"I don't care what we do," I tell him honestly.

We return to the elevator, and I stare at the wall. I feel the panic trying to rise inside me, a small voice screaming, but I can push it down. Aiden is looking at me. His gaze is moving up and down like he's searching for something and trying to figure out a way to make this better.

"Are you taking me home now?" I ask.

"Molly might just need time. You heard what happened to her. She's going to be shocked."

"You said she knew."

Ding, the golden doors open onto the marble lobby. The sun has come out, and the lobby is flooded with light. It seems depressing somehow, all this light. Aiden walks by my side as I head for the door. I don't realize how desperately I need fresh air until I'm standing on the street, sucking in big gasps. Then Aiden's hand is on my shoulder. I try to push him away, but I need him there. Otherwise, it feels like I'll fall.

"Why did you say that?" I mutter as he leads me down the street toward his car.

"I just … Hell, there's no excuse."

"Not an excuse. A reason."

"I wanted to make you smile," he says simply.

I don't reply. Is he trying to mess with my head? Why would he do something so cruel and follow it up with something so warm and meaningful? When we reach the parking lot, he opens my passenger-side door. I sit down, hands on my knees, squeezing down to feel something, the pain of my fingernails, anything but sadness.

"Dad's calling me," Aiden says. "Do you mind if I answer?"

"Why would I care?"

It's not even a question, just a numb statement. I wish Dimitri were here. He'd know how to make this better. He always knows how to make everything seem less horrible. He'd smirk, look in control, and know exactly what to do. Then Mikhail would make a joke, and everything would be okay.

"Put it on speaker," I say.

"Are you sure?"

"Please."

He sighs, then answers the phone. "Dad, I've got you on speaker with Ania."

"Anna, I want to say?—"

"Ania, Dad," Aiden snaps. "This isn't your fucking fairy tale. Using the name Molly wanted won't turn back time."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

Aiden sighs. "I'm sorry, too."

Despite the fierceness, this brief exchange tells me a lot about their genuine love for each other. After a pause, Theodore says, "You were right. I should've told her. I just … She's talked about how eager she is to see you, Ann—Ania."

"Reality is always tougher," Aiden says. "After what happened to her …"

"Does she think the Sokolovs can touch her now?" Theodore says, but it's a rhetorical question in his eyes, I think, now that my father is dead.

"They can get to anyone," I say, thinking of my brothers.

"Pardon, dear?"

I don't bother repeating myself.

"We need to give her some time," Theodore goes on. "Once the shock has passed, I'm sure it will be the reunion we all wished for."

"Hmm," Aiden replies.

After a pause, Theodore says, "Keep your phone nearby."

Aiden hangs up, then runs a hand through his close-cropped hair. The movement reminds me so much of Mikhail with his floppy hair. "That was a mess."

"Yeah."

"Are you …" He stops himself. "Let's swing by a diner or something."

He was about to say hungry, I guess. I haven't even got the energy to tell him no. I need to plan a way to escape, especially after that little display. I can't even think about the way my mom ran away from me. I need a plan. I don't have my phone, but what if I just chose my moment, ran from the diner, asked to borrow somebody's phone, and then called my brothers? That's possible.

I go along with it, mentally rehearsing what I'll do when the chance presents itself. There's going to be a window, and I have to take it, even if there's this silly whisper inside me telling me to pirouette my way into my kidnapper's arms.

We drive until we reach a diner, and then he parks up. When he climbs out, I tell myself to push the car door open and run. All I'll have to do is tell a Sokolov that I'm on the East Coast, and that will be enough. Maybe Theodore and Aiden don't think the Sokolovs are impressive, but I know the truth. I know that my brothers have done dangerous, scary things.

He walks around to my side of the car. Maybe it's petty, but I quickly push the door open before he can do it for me. Okay, so there's no maybe about that. I climb from the car and follow him toward the entrance. The whole time, he's standing close.

"Are you hungry again?" I ask. "We only ate like two hours ago."

"We," he repeats, making me want to slap him.

"Seriously, mind your business."

"Hmm. Anyway, when you're two-seventy, you need a lot of fuel. Let's get a plate of something to share. That way, you can make me feel good about myself. I won't even know how much I've eaten."

A small smile touches my lips. Despite everything, I can't ignore how he's constantly trying to make an effort with me. He seems to always think of me, but that could be his kidnapper charm. Maybe he's just trying to make me believe he cares. Perhaps I'm a sucker.

"We'll wait here," he says before entering the diner.

"What, why?"

He nods inside. "That family is about to leave the corner booth."

"Why does that matter?"

He frowns. "It's the best seat in the house."

I look through the tall windows, spotting at least three other tables we could sit at. "If you want to eat …"

"They're paying their bill now," he says, not looking at me.

"I don't get it."

"It has the best view," he says gruffly. "What's so difficult? It's the safest place to sit, so that's where we'll sit."

His tone has become dark and impatient. I don't understand why it matters, but he's clearly not going anywhere. Soon, the family of four leaves, and Aiden opens the door for me. The stench of food hits me the second we walk through the door: bacon, eggs, grease, and coffee. I try to hide my reaction, but I can feel him watching, always watching.

He sits with his back to the wall, seeming more comfortable now.

"Is this a military thing or something?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Ah, here's the waitress."

But he does know. He's just trying to pretend everything's fine. This really shouldn't bother me. It shouldn't matter in the tiniest way. Yet it niggles at me, just like how the waitress smiles at Aiden niggles at me. She's a short, curvy woman, built like my brother's wives, who can have curves for days and still look beautiful. Not for a ballerina, though.

"What can I get y'all?"

"Is that a Southern accent?" Aiden says with a smile.

"Sure is."

"We'll have the breakfast platter. Thank you. And a coffee for me, black. Ania?"

"Water."

I find myself glaring at the waitress as she turns and walks away. She's swaying her hips almost like she wants to put on a show for Aiden. It doesn't matter, though. She can do anything she wants. It makes no difference to me.

"Why did you say that about her accent?" I ask.

Aiden shrugs. "Small talk is second nature to me. It makes life easier. If I just stare at people, they get uncomfortable."

I start tearing apart a napkin, nodding. "I guess that makes sense."

"Why? Jealous?"

"Are you kidding?" I snap back. "You're going to make stupid, immature comments like that after what just happened?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

God, I wish it was harder not to smile when he chirps at me like that. It's like the corners of my lips belong to somebody else, and I don't even care how crazy that sounds. "Do you want me to be jealous, bro?"

He sighs, nodding as if to say, I get it. The gun's over. Part of me is pathetically guilty for ruining the moment, whatever it was. The waitress seems more detached when she brings over the coffee pot and my water. Maybe it has something to do with how I look at her.

"She's just doing her job," Aiden says once she's gone.

"You sure love defending her, don't you?"

Aiden sighs. "She hasn't done anything that needs defending. If you're not jealous, who cares?"

"You should get her number, then."

He leans forward, seeming bigger. "I don't want her number. I haven't dated in years."

My lips do that annoying twitching thing again, turning at the edges without my say-so. I take a big gulp of water so he can't see. After placing it down, I say, "Well, that's interesting, I'm sure. To somebody, not to me."

"Okay, sleepwalker."

That gets a laugh from me, a spontaneous release that has me grinning like a loon. It's so annoying how powerless I feel about everything he does. People never usually joke about that stuff, and it feels weirdly good like it's not so big and scary now that we're laughing about it.

Soon, though, the food is here. There's a big platter of eggs, sausage, and other stuff—toast, butter, and all the smells. I lean back, putting my hands on my stomach.

"You seemed interested in why I wanted to sit here," Aiden mutters, looking at me closely.

"Uh, yeah, maybe," I mutter.

"Well, why don't we play a game? You ask me a question. For every answer, you eat a mouthful of food."

"This again?"

"Ania," he growls, leaning forward again, staring at me as if he has some possessive hold over me. Would that be such a bad thing? Yes, yes, it would. "Let's stop messing around. We both know what you're doing to yourself. We both know you think it's what you must do for your career, but you're wrong. Ballerinas are athletes?—"

"You don't know?—"

However, unlike everybody else in my life, he doesn't care about protecting the Sokolov princess's feelings. He just keeps going. "Athletes need calories. So if you're telling yourself that this is the way to be the best ballerina, it's a lie."

I've torn the napkin to pieces but keep tearing it into even smaller ones to keep the pieces of me together. "You're doing a lot of assuming."

"Maybe," he replies. "Or maybe I've spent my life reading people. Maybe I've been watching you, and maybe, as much as you hate to admit it, you know I'm right. You know you need to listen to me. Aren't you curious? It's not normal, is it? Waiting outside so I can get the corner booth?"

"About as normal as going to the bathroom and—" I bite down. "That."

He reaches across the table and places his hand on mine. It's like he does it without thinking. I look down at his hand and feel the warmth, almost with a surreal sensation. It's like I'm looking at somebody else's clasped hands. He moves his finger over my knuckles, and then I slide my hand away. I can't let this happen: this connection, this closeness. It's too tempting.

"Shall we play the game?" he asks.

"Do you believe all that stuff you were saying? About ballerinas and athletes?"

"It's true. Athletes need fuel," he says eagerly.

"But they're all so thin."

"Maybe they fuel up during training season, then cut when it's time to perform. Lots of athletes do that—bodybuilders, boxers, MMA fighters. They fuel, they lean down, and they perform. Have you got a show coming up?"

I swallow. "Um, well, no. Not yet. I'm still learning. I mean, not on the East Coast, anyway, so …" My belly warbles as I look down at the food. "That's not fuel, though. The bacon? Look how fatty it is."

"Fat is good for you, fat and salt, especially for somebody who works out. You sweat out the salt and need the fat for fuel."

"Really?"

"Trust me." He puts a hand on his chest, a small smile on his face. "Can't you tell how vain I am?"

"There's a hole in your shirt."

He smirks. "Is there?"

Now I'm smiling. How does he keep doing that? I nod at his shirt. It's on the sleeve. I've been trying not to look at it because I notice his muscles bulge whenever he moves. "Yeah. Right there, Mr. Vain."

He grins at my sarcasm. It makes me feel more validated than it should—a simple smile. It almost makes me feel like we could have something together, which is something I need to get out of my head and keep out of my head.

"It's true anyway," he says. "So ask away, but first, one mouthful."

I swallow, my throat suddenly filled with saliva, feeling like it could close off. I need to get myself under control. I never expected a kidnapper-in-not-so-shining armor to ride into my life and be able to read every little thing about me easily. I never expected to care, or even if someone like me could care.

"Question first," I say. When he raises his eyebrow, I ask, "Why do you need to see the entrance?"

"That question's too big," he replies flippantly, but I know he's only trying to hide how important the answer is.

"Is that your answer?"

He leans back, drumming his fingers on the table. He sighs and says, "I need to see the entrances to ensure nobody sneaks up on me."

"Like who?"

"Nah-uh," he says, nodding to the plate, then picks up a piece of bacon and munches it as though he's showing me how.

I grab a knife and fork and begin cutting myself a piece, trying not to think about my future career and what I will have to do afterward. It's like there's this creature inside of me. Obviously, I do eat … sometimes. I need to stop freaking out. I want to learn more about him. I want to understand all the different things that make him tic. I shouldn't, but I do.

After a pause, I put a small piece in my mouth. I try not to cringe as I chew. It's an instinct that makes me feel weak when Aiden looks at me so closely, with so much apparent concern in his eyes. I force myself to swallow it.

"Do I need to go, ahh?" I say.

He smirks, shaking his head, munching on his bacon.

"Who do you think will sneak up on us? My brothers?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not worried about them."

"Who?"

"That's another question."

"You're being vague to make me eat more. See, I can read you, too."

"Maybe I am," he replies, chuckling. "It doesn't change the fact we had a deal, does it?"

I cut myself another piece of bacon. This time, I wash it down with some water. He's looking at me as though he's proud, which means more to me than it should. I want him to be proud of something as simple as a few mouthfuls of bacon. No, not a few, two.

"My brothers?" I ask.

"It's nobody specific," he replies. "It's just … Why wouldn't I be careful, Ania? The world can be a cold, dangerous place. I don't see why I would risk leaving myself open to an attack. I know how that sounds to some people."

"How does it sound?"

He tsks and nods at the plate. My belly begins to warble. I wonder if he can see the indecision threatening to tear through me because he leans forward, nodding slowly, piercing eyes aimed at me. It takes a lot of effort, but I manage to eat another mouthful, and then he says, "It sounds like I'm a psycho."

"That makes two of us," I whisper, leaning back, my gaze automatically flitting around to look for the bathroom.

"You're staying right here with me," he tells me. "Don't worry. I won't ask you to keep playing the game."

Translation: he won't ask me to eat anymore.

"What happens now?" I ask with my hands over my belly.

"We finish this and then return to the lodge."

"How about after, with … Molly?" I almost said Mom, but calling her that feels ridiculous after what happened. How can I think of her as my mom when she wants nothing to do with me?

"I don't know," he says gruffly.

"Maybe you should just take me home. We can pretend this never happened. My brothers have both recently gotten married. They're the happiest they've ever been. Now they have to deal with me disappearing."

"Your brothers are?—"

"My brothers are my brothers," I hiss. "So stop putting them down. Stop thinking you know everything."

His lips contort into a frown, but then he reaches over and places his hand on mine again. This time, he squeezes tightly, almost like he's trying to tell me he'll always be here for me. Where do thoughts like that come from? It's just so silly.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I gasp. That's the last thing I expected to hear from him.

"I am," he goes on. "I don't know the relationship you have with your brothers."

"Yet you seem to hate them."

"They're criminals," he says, as if that explains everything.

"They're good people. They don't do the nasty, evil things the others do. They actually would rather be poor and have no power than do any of that crap. Believe me."

"Hmm."

"I'm being serious. Don't hmm me."

The second I snatch my hand away, regret tries to scream at me. What the hell are you doing? I have to be strong. When I stand, he does, too, looking down at me like he's getting ready to grab me. My body tingles in all sorts of ways it shouldn't at the thought.

"I need to use the bathroom."

"Ania—"

"I need to really use it. Stop assuming you know what I'm going to do, especially if you think the worst all the time."

"I'll need to come with you."

"How will that look, huh?"

Before he can reply, I march across the diner. The waitress gives me a sideways look, and I almost bark at her. Something stops me, though. It might be because it would be the most over-the-top thing to do. It would only draw attention to me, which is the last thing I need right now, especially if I want my plan to work.

Walking down the hallway, I pick up the pace, dart to the left, and push open the fire door. An alarm immediately blares. I can't afford to stop and think or worry about all the commotion.

I run onto the street, my heart pounding, not letting myself think. If I let myself think, my instincts will probably try to lead me back to him. I'll end up running into his arms like some damsel in distress. I refuse to be that person. I can't live my whole life scared.

Taking a quick turn, I dash down an alleyway. I need to get away from Aiden—even if I don't want to—and find a phone.