Chapter 8 - Fiona

I'm withering on the armchair, trying to read something, but my brain can't focus. I remember the eyes of one of the women from the other night.

That's not the only thing that repeats in my head from the other night. Visions of Boris, the way his head was propped against the arm of the couch, how he opened his eyes sleepily to me, the way he visibly aroused at the sight of me there, with the knife, keep running through my mind.

More than anything, I'm furious with myself for not seeing who Mr. Allard truly was. My dad always said that more than fighting, more than weapons, more than knowing how to escape, and how to read other people was the most important skill you could have.

Taking one look at someone and clocking them—knowing how dangerous they are to you, whether they might hurt you, whether they're conniving or simple-minded—all of that would tell you how to act around them, where to spend your energy.

I remember lifting weights at the local YMCA with my dad when I was in high school. He'd point to each person, asking me for my read on them. Then he'd run scenarios by me.

In the middle of the summer, when the heat was at its worst, I remember being on the bench, a biscuit on either side of the bar, struggling to get the weight up, my dad's hand hovering under the bar, not much security if I were to suddenly give out.

"What if that guy comes at us?" he asked, tipping his head across the room toward a meaty guy with a bald head. "What's your play?"

"Knee injury," I answered, my voice coming out labored as I continued struggling with the weight. "Throw the bar, go for the knees. Maybe take a biscuit to it."

"Really think you're going to be able to throw that bar right now?" my dad had asked, removing his hand. My eyes widened as I looked up at him, his face upside-down above me. "Go ahead," he'd said, raising an eyebrow at me. "Throw it."

I gasped for air, terror seizing through my chest. I couldn't throw the bar. I could barely lift it. The weight started moving back toward my chest, but I couldn't dump the weights because they were clipped.

"Dad," I'd wheezed, smiling at him. "Help."

But he did not smile as he stared down at me. He kneeled, his face close to mine, watching as the sweat formed on my brow, and I struggled not to let the weight crush me.

"I don't go through these scenarios for shits and giggles," he'd said. "One day, someone is going to come at you, and you're either going to have a plan, or you're going to go down. A plan you can't use isn't a plan, Fi. It's just wishful fucking thinking."

Then, he reached over, unclipping the weight on my right so I could dump it. Using the strength I had left, I turned, sliding the weight off and utilizing the imbalance to let the other side of the bar fall to the side. My dad stood, moving to the other side of the gym as I sat there, chest heaving, face tomato-red with embarrassment. The loud noise meant everyone stared at me, including the meaty man my dad and I had been discussing.

Now, there's a knock at the door, and I jump, realizing I've been turning the pages of my book but haven't been paying attention to the words. I shut it and stood up to open the door.

It's more than likely not Boris. I haven't seen him since the kiss. It's almost like he's avoiding me.

"Oh, Ivan," I say, rolling my eyes as he enters with a tall stack of boxes. He sets it down on the ground with a huff.

"Don't put any of these on the bed," he says, leaning back and popping his back. "Mary-Anne will have a fit."

"How is she? Did she come back?"

"Tomorrow," Ivan says, eyeing me carefully. "Though I can't say she's going to be too thrilled that you're still here. She says she's been having nightmares.

"If it's any consolation, this entire thing is a nightmare for me," I mutter, eyes tracking to the boxes. I realize it's all the stuff I ordered before, but the spark of fun from spending a bunch of money is gone, and now I just feel tired.

"Come on, then," Ivan says, kneeling and opening a box. "You're going to need something other than those sweatpants."

"Oh, am I?" I ask, falling back onto the bed. "I don't think the man in that portrait—" I point at a picture across the room, "—cares about what I'm wearing."

"You'll need other clothes if you plan to walk around the property, is what I mean."

"Walk around the property?" I ask, sitting up, my eyebrows nearly hitting my hairline. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh," he says, looking up at me and pausing his slice through one of the boxes. "Well, Mr. Milov has been fortifying the grounds lately. And I'm to personally escort you, but he says you're to have free range of the Milov property."

"Oh, that's rich," I laugh. "He feels bad for locking me in here?"

"Well," Ivan says, swallowing and glancing at the door. "He's not the worst—"

"I don't want to hear it," I say, raising my hand. "Now, let's get through these clothes."

I launch into a fashion show for Ivan, who hates every single second, saying every outfit looks "fine" and just wanting to be done with the whole thing. Finally, we have all the clothes sorted into the pile I'm going to keep and the pile that should be returned. I put on one of the outfits, and Ivan helps me hang the rest.

I don't usually choose to dress particularly femininely, but for some reason, the yellow sundress with the sunflowers is calling my name. I pair it with yellow sneakers and a wide-brimmed sun hat, turning and admiring myself in the mirror. It's a far cry from my typical outfit of shorts and a T-shirt.

"Shall we go?" I ask Ivan, who makes me pause at the entrance to the house to put on sunscreen before leaving. We step out into the sunshine, and I stop for a moment, having almost forgotten how good it feels to have the sun on my face.

Then, I start at a brisk pace away from the house.

I can see the guard Ivan talked about, lined up around the property. If I was going to escape now, it would be at night. Especially since Boris has stopped sleeping in the room with me. I would need to find a disguise again, or, at the very least, put together an all-black outfit. I would need to scale down the side of the building and make it to the woods.

I'd find a stream to clear the scent from myself, just in case the Milovs have dogs I haven't noticed yet. That seems just like something they would enjoy—I picture Viktor, specifically, grinning ear-to-ear as he releases his ruthless guard dogs.

Once I got out, it would take a few days, but I would have to creep along through the woods before getting to the next town. I'd need a disguise—something inconspicuous—to get back into my apartment without the Milovs discovering me. And then, even if I did get my fake documents, Boris may have already found them and put a track on the name.

Which means I'd need to find a way to get all-new fake papers, which could take some time.

My thoughts fade as I come across a tall, wrought-iron gate shrouded by trees. I turn to Ivan, who's breathing heavily from trying to keep up with me.

"What's this?" I ask, jerking my head at the gate. It looks like it leads somewhere interesting.

"It's the other Milov property," he says after a second, as though he's not sure if he's supposed to be telling me about it.

"So, let's go in."

"Go in?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, incredulous. "No, I think—"

"Didn't you say I have free range of Milov properties? So, this would be included, right?"

Ignoring his protests, I walk up to the call box, press the button to let myself in, and jump excitedly as the doors swing open, allowing me to step inside.

It's a long, winding path that's clearly meant for a car to traverse, but I'm not turning back now. I take a deep breath of the hot air and start to trudge up the path. Ivan swipes at his brow with a handkerchief.

"On the hottest day of the year," he mutters, working to keep pace with me.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" I ask, glancing over at him.

"Adventure? This isn't an adventure, this is—"

"You must be Fiona!" someone shouts, and when I look up, I see another woman running down the front steps to a huge house. It's large, but not as big as the other house I've been staying in. I watch her fly down the steps and come barreling toward me.

"Anya—" Ivan says, but not before she slams into me, rocking both of us backward and nearly knocking me over.

"I am so sorry for my oaf of a brother's behavior," she says, shaking her head. "Can you believe I have to explain to him that kidnapping and forcing someone to marry you is bad? It's like these dumbasses didn't graduate preschool."

"These dumb asses?' I ask, but she pulls away, shaking her head, rolling her eyes, and smiling at herself like she's forgotten something important.

"Oh," she says, "my bad—I'm Anya. Boris's youngest sister. Only sister, actually—youngest sibling, though. I'm rambling! Come inside!"

I glance back at Ivan, who already looks more than irritated, as Anya grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside. It seems like she's maybe a year or two younger than me. If anyone else were trying to haul me around like this, I would have already started fighting them, but she seems sweet.

"Fiona," Anya says once we've moved through the entryway and into a kitchen, where three men are gathered. One of them is standing in front of the kitchen, cooking something, and the other two are sitting at the kitchen island, nursing glasses of an amber liquid.

I eye the bottle—I could go for a drink right about now.

"I assume you've already somewhat met these guys," Anya says, "but allow me to officially introduce you. This is Roman," she says, gesturing, "and Viktor."

"We are very well acquainted," I say, smiling at Viktor, who glares.

"You put a fucking knife in my leg," he growls.

"Oh, what's the matter? You can dish it out, but you can't take it? I heard that bone saw running in the basement. Maybe you need to up your pain tolerance before someone takes you captive."

When I'm done talking, the entire room is deathly silent. When I glance around, it looks like all the other siblings are holding their breath, waiting to see what's going to happen.

Then, Viktor bursts out laughing.

"I don't know where the hell Boris found you," he says, shaking his head as he takes a sip of his whiskey, "but I hope he keeps you."

"Of course he's keeping her," Anya whispers, glancing between Viktor and me. "They're married, aren't they?"

"Well," I say, "Actually, I signed Olive's name during the ceremony. I'd assume that nullifies everything, but I'm not a lawyer, so I have no idea."

Roman spits out his whiskey, which makes Anya scream and jump backward.

"Disgusting!" she says, which is something I'm noticing this family says a lot.

"God, I'm sorry," Roman says, laughing. "It's just that Boris has been having a hell of a time lately."

"Uh, sis," someone says, and we turn around to where another man is standing at the stove, wearing an apron that says something in Russian. "Have you forgotten something?"

"Oh, and of course, this is my dear brother Anton, the best of the bunch of them, if I do say so myself."

"Right to our face," Roman says, as Viktor says, "ouch, okay."

I realize I'm laughing, my hand on the counter, leaning forward, feeling more relaxed than I have in a long time. Since Olive and I met in our freshman year of college, her family has tried to welcome me into the fold, but there were just so many things that made us different—it was hard for me to feel at home.

But I feel comfortable here, watching the siblings joke and make fun of each other. Less lonely.

My father died one week before my high school graduation. With my mother already done and no aunts, uncles, or siblings, I took myself to the ceremony and walked alone, with only my loose group of friends to celebrate with.

When we all went our separate ways after graduation, I thought I would get my found family in college, a group of friends I could truly call my own. Then, my freshman roommate was a complete nightmare.

She would leave milk and yogurt on her desk for days, throw her trash and laundry all over the room, and frequently bring over all sorts of men to have sex with. It seemed she didn't really have a type.

After Christmas break, I debated not returning at all, but I forced myself to see it through.

When I walked into the room, it was tidy. There was a new pink bedspread on the bunk across from mine.

"Hello?" I'd said, and someone bumped their head while hanging string lights under their bed.

"Shit," they said, "sorry—I'm Olive."

Despite how well Olive and I get along, we still have our issues. I just never fit in with her rich, spoiled, girly friends. The ones who have never even had to put air in a tire or go grocery shopping for themselves. Talking to them makes me feel like my head is rapidly filling with air.

"Here, try this," Anton says, bringing a spoon to my lips. I glance at him warily, then try a little sip of the stuff.

"What is it?' I ask, after trying it. It's sweet, salty, and complex all at once.

"Borscht," Anton says, turning back to the stove. "I'm working our way through our grandma's cookbook."

"Yeah, and I have no idea why," Roman mutters. "Just make burgers like a regular person."

"This is a way for us to—"

"—connect with our heritage !" the rest of them finish, breaking into giggles when Anton puts a hand on his hip, looking pretty funny with the spoon and the apron.

"What's your heritage, Fiona?" Anya asks, but I don't have a chance to answer that because the front door of the house flies open, and someone comes thundering in, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the hall.

"Viktor!" Boris says as he rounds the corner. "If you—"

He stops short when he sees us all in the kitchen together.

"Oh," he says, his eyes settling on me. "I thought you had—"

"You thought I escaped?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow. It's the first time I've seen him since the kiss the other night, and when I look at him now, I can't stop imagining it. The way it felt to slip into his lap, how he'd breathed against me, under me—

"Let's go," Boris says, stepping forward and reaching out like he might put a hand on my arm. Anya reaches out before I can do anything, stopping her brother in his tracks.

"Fiona is staying for dinner," she says. "You're welcome to join us if you want, but she's staying."

Boris stands there for a moment, looking around the room like he's waiting for someone to come to his rescue. When his siblings all look back at him blankly—with the exception of Anton, who's busy stirring the borscht, Boris lets out a sigh.

"Fine," he says, "but if it's to be a proper family meal, we're eating in the dining room."