29. Alena

"You're not listening!"

The words fall on deaf ears. Kristof releases me with a snarl, then he turns and strides from the room with the door slamming closed behind him. The sharp click of the lock sliding into place shreds my last thread of restraint, and my tears spill over.

Betrayal is not on my mind.

Fear is.

The daunting aspect of leaving behind this place I've been held for a month, of leaving behind the only family I've ever known and the only home I have ever had to fly halfway across the world. My stomach twists sharply at the very thought, and through my hot tears, I bolt toward the bathroom. Reaching the toilet just in time, I spew up a few painful mouthfuls of bile and slump down onto the tiles with my arms wrapped around the cold bowl.

Kristof was with me but wasn't hearing what I was saying. It was as if the second I doubted him, he immediately became shrouded in a cloak and only heard what he expected, not what I was trying to say.

Not for the first time, I yearn for Katja by my side. Her comfort and her advice would soothe me in moments, and her company would do wonders for my growing need to vent.

Instead, I am alone, crying on the bathroom floor as all known stable foundation is ripped away from me. For the first time since I woke up here, I'm scared.

Leaving the country must mean something important has happened, right? Sure, Kristof has always traveled back to Russia for business, but something about how he acted tells me this isn't just a regular work trip.

I remain on the bathroom floor for a few long minutes, sobbing heavily as my stomach twists. I finally stand and trudge back to the bedroom when I'm certain I won't be sick again. The suitcase is on the floor, messily packed but still open. The clothes Kristof brought me are simple—jeans and a T-shirt. Regular clothes to blend in as if we're just regular people.

Cautiously, I test the door handle, but it doesn't budge. Definitely locked.

Maybe if I could just talk to him again?

I replay the argument in my head as I slowly dress. Each time I run it through, I say different things that stop Kristof from getting angry and assure him that I am here and on his side no matter what happens. Only in my fantasy does he accept that and kiss me before he leaves.

Reality is colder.

Dressed, I run a brush through my hair and scoop it into a ponytail, secure with a bobble. Then, I look at myself in the mirror. Tears still fall, slower now, and red rims my eyes. My cheeks are flushed, but for a stark moment, I look normal, like a regular woman wearing regular clothes, simply upset because she and her boyfriend had an argument.

Once that would be fixed within the hour.

No such luck for me.

Dressed and sad, I curl up on the bed with my arms around a pillow and stare at the door through blurry eyes, waiting for Kristof to reappear. He'd been so insistent and urgent that I can't imagine I'll be waiting long. My heart still pounds, making each breath tremble out of me, and I practice the things I want to say.

As soon as he appears, I'll tell him straight.

I'm scared of leaving, not of him. I'm scared of being without the comforting security that being in a city I know gives me. I'll tell him I'm sorry that I didn't explain it clearly enough.

And then I'll tell him he's a dick for not listening to me.

Between the tears and the comfiness of the bed, my thoughts slowly drift, and before I know it, I've fallen asleep.

Unsettled, anxious dreams sweep through my mind, weaving the argument with being lost in an endless maze. The walls close in with each turn I take, desperately trying to find Kristof, but other than the distant call of his voice, he's nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, I'm being shaken.

I jolt awake with a gasp, the skin on my face pulling tightly from all the dried tears. My room is dark, and the only light spills through from the open door. Kristof stands over me, cloaked in shadow, but I can make out the sharp line of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Up," he barks at me.

Blearily, I rub my eyes and begin to slide from the bed, but his impatience wins out and he grabs me from the bed by the arm. As he pulls me up, a spark of anger rises in me. Sleep has given me a chance to calm down in terms of being upset, but the irritation remains.

For being a man so in control, Kristof sure is pigheaded when he thinks he's being proven right.

"I can stand myself," I snap, jerking my arm free of his grasp.

He grunts but doesn't reply. Yawning, I straighten my clothes as Kristof shoves a jacket into my arms.

"Downstairs, now."

The suitcase is gone from the room. I grumble under my breath and slip the jacket on while Kristof leads the way out of the room and down the stairs. I'm struck suddenly with the reckless urge to shove him down the stairs. It would certainly make me feel better.

That thought is brief, and I shove it away, zipping up my jacket.

Kristof doesn't say a word to me the entire way through the house and out into the garage. It's not until the cool air bites my cheeks and spreads its long, chilled fingers through my hair that I realize this is the first time I've been outside without a collar since I arrived here. I could run right now if I were what Kristof thinks I am.

Out through the gate and down the road, back into the arms of my horrible family.

But I don't. Because he's wrong about me.

"In." He opens the passenger side door and indicates for me to get inside.

I do, with minimal complaint. Kristof slams the door closed, and I settle into the hard leather seats, then track his shadow as he walks around the car, pausing slightly to speak briefly to the driver. It isn't anyone I recognize. Maybe he called an Uber.

Kristof then slides into the back seat next to me and the car thrums into life. We leave behind the second home I've ever known in a single gear change.

As the silence drags out between us, my anger grows. I want an apology. I expect one. I've done a lot for Kristof when it comes to following his rules and obeying him because I've benefitted too. I've enjoyed the quiet life, being wanted and loved, and the sex has been insane. But this? His accusations that I'm just waiting to leave him?

That hurts.

He gets so caught up in his own world that he seems to forget I have feelings.

Kristof's attention is fixed on his phone as we drive, but eventually, he reaches out to rest a hand on my thigh. I immediately shove his touch away and huddle up to the door, staring pointedly out the window at the passing city. Sometime later, he tries to take my hand, but I reject that too.

I'm not letting this slide.

He was an asshole, and I deserve an apology.

And… I'm scared. Instead of understanding and comforting me, he ran with his thoughts and ignored my feelings.

My rejection doesn't rouse any reaction from him, at least not one I can sense, as I keep my attention on the passing world. Eventually, the city melts away to highways and high fences, then the large open tarmac of the runway.

My heart jumps into my throat.

We're really leaving. It's been real in my mind, but now it's starkly obvious. There's no turning back.

The car pulls to a stop, and Kristof steps out immediately. I push on the handle and open the door, stepping out as an act of defiance rather than waiting for him to open the door for me. As soon as my boot hits the tarmac, I'm swept up in a pair of arms and floral perfume fills my nose.

"Alena!" comes Nastja's voice, and she hugs me close. "It is so nice you are coming with us."

"Like she has a choice," scoffs another faintly familiar voice. The hug parts and Ivan, Kristof's brother, stands a few feet away surrounded by suitcases.

"Oh, shut up," Nastja scolds. Nastja touches my cheek with one cool hand and smiles at me, her brow creasing. "How are you, my dear?"

"I'm alright," I answer, and my voice croaks slightly after remaining silent for so long. "I'm…" I pause and glance at Kristof, who has his back to me. "I've never flown before."

"Of course you haven't." Nastja nods understandingly. "Well, there's nothing to it. Half the time, you don't even realize you are in the air."

"Unless you're Nastja, because she spends half the time buried in a sick bag." Ivan laughs.

Nastja turns on him immediately, swinging a hand that he ducks with a laugh. "Fuck you!" she snaps. "I'm trying to make her feel better."

"Sure, sure," Ivan scoffs. "It's like being on a bus."

"I've never been on a bus, either," I point out. It's difficult to remain sullen when the two of them are joking around, and a smile pulls at my lips.

"So sheltered," Ivan tuts. "Well, have you ever been inside a giant tin can that roars so loudly you can't hear yourself think and occasionally makes your ears pop?"

"No."

"Oh, well, first time for everything."

"You're an asshole." Nastja snorts, then she loops one arm through mine. "You will be fine. I promise."

A man dressed in a dark blue suit with gold piping along the hat and down his jacket hurries down the steps of the gigantic jet in front of us and begins collecting the bags.

"Come on," Kristof barks, finally pulling his attention away from his phone. "Get on the plane."

A sudden seriousness falls over Ivan and Nastja and they both nod. Nastja releases me with a pat on the shoulder and then collects one of the bags from the ground. As they head toward the jet, Kristof wraps his arm around my shoulders and starts herding me toward the plane. I shrug him off immediately, and this time, I catch a subtle noise of irritation escaping him.

Good.

I stomp up the steps of the jet, trying to show him that I'm mad at him and also that I don't care, but that determination wavers when I turn the corner and come face to face with the inside of the jet.

It's massive. If anything, the inside looks like a fancy cocktail bar with six large, plush seats lining each side of the jet and a bar at the back with several bottles of alcohol locked behind glass. The floor is a deep blue, and the cream seats are lined in gold, with dark blue curtains framing each window and golden lights twinkling above.

I'll sit down, and then America will be a distant thought.

I swallow hard and my knees knock together.

Fuck.

Kristof presses a hand between my shoulder blades and shoves me forward. I make an indignant sound, but when I turn to face him, he takes my arm and all but throws me into one of the seats.

"Hey!"

My indignation falls on deaf ears as he snaps the buckle tightly over my lap, then he grabs my chin and his fingertips dig firmly into my jaw.

"You forget who you belong to," he snaps, and the annoyance is clear in his silver eyes.

For a moment, his touch soothes me. My worry about leaving is second to the warmth that seeps through me, and I almost forget I'm mad at him.

"You can't suddenly decide what I can and cannot touch, understand? I thought I'd whipped this bratty little attitude out of you. That pussy is mine, understand? I will take it, and you, whenever I want, so reel in the attitude, or I'm the only one that's going to get any pleasure the next time I fuck you."

"Fuck off," I snap heatedly, and I meet his gaze with a glare of my own. "Didn't think you'd wanna put your dick anywhere near someone you think so little of."

"Alena," he warns dangerously, but his next words never pass his lips. The intercom crackles, and the pilot's voice fills the jet, announcing our immediate departure.

"Sit your ass down, Brother," Ivan states, moving past us and taking a seat at the back.

Kristof's grip tightens faintly, then he releases me and throws himself into the chair beside me. His buckle clacks as it clasps together, and he shoots me a glare, but he's silent.

The pilot is speaking too loudly anyway as he runs through safety procedures. I forget them the moment I hear them. Something rumbles through the plane, and my hands shoot to the armrests, gripping tightly. I press my thighs together and breathe in, trying to calm my racing heart, but nothing helps.

The only thing that did, briefly, was Kristof's touch.

Fuck.

I'm scared.

Nastja and Ivan are behind me, so there's nowhere I can look for comfort. The jet rumbles again, and a deafening roar bursts into life around me. I grip tighter at the armrest until the leather starts to seep under my fingernails, and the pounding noise of my heart is swallowed by the noise of the engines.

This is it.

I'm leaving everything I've ever known behind, flying to a strange country filled with strange people and places and a language I don't speak despite my heritage.

If anything happens there, I'll be more than alone.

The jet pulls forward. The movement draws a squeak from me, and then, suddenly, my stomach lurches like stepping off a diving board without knowing how close the water is.

"Alena?" Kristof sounds concerned.

"What?" I snap, rigid in my seat.

"You're… what's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" My eyes snap to him. "I told you what was wrong, and you didn't fucking listen to me. You heard what you wanted to hear and not what I was actually saying. I told you I was terrified of leaving, and you took that to mean I was scared of leaving with you."

Kristof is silent, letting the words pour from me.

"We're leaving, I get that, but I told you I'd never even left the state! Leaving to another country where I know no one, where I know nothing and don't even speak the language, leaving behind everything I've ever known, it's terrifying! Sure, maybe part of me thought I'd get to go home, but that we'd go home together, y'know? It would be me and you, and life would be there, but now you're plucking me right out of everything I've found comfort in and I'm scared. I'm even scared of flying, I think? I don't know, I can't tell."

An iron tang washes over my tongue, and pressure fills my ears.

"It wasn't you." Still, I talk. It's the only thing distracting me from the fact that I am in the sky in a tin box. "You've been such a comfort to me, shown me things I've never dreamed of and unlocked a bold part of myself that I didn't even know was there, but when I told you how I was feeling, you immediately accused me of betraying you! How fucked up is that?"

The jet shudders and silences my tirade of unchecked thoughts. I whimper, and then suddenly, Kristof's hand is on mine.

My eyes water. I'm too scared to blink. Kristof's no longer in his chair. He crouches before me, and only when I focus on him do I realize the flight is quite smooth now.

"You're right," Kristof says. "Alena, I am sorry. When I heard your shock at leaving, it translated to me that all along, I had been right and trusting you was a mistake. When I decided that, nothing you said made sense and felt like excuses, and I… I am sorry. I am. I should have listened to you with the same respect that I ask of you."

"Yeah," I snap, finally blinking and letting those tears slip down my cheeks. "You should have."

"I'm sorry," Kristof says, reaching for my cheek and stroking away the tears.

"Do you forgive me?"