In which life as Alexi’s captive isn’t nearly as much fun as life as his guest.
Lucya…
Oh, Svyataya Bogoroditsa, holy mother of god, I slapped him.
I slapped the Angel of Death. I’m going to die.
Alexi’s face doesn’t change expression. I’m seeing the ice-cold mask, the last thing his victims must see before he kills them. His hand comes up to cup my throat. Not squeezing, nothing like that night in the alley. Just holding me there, his chilly fingers running along my carotid artery. My pulse is fluttering madly.
“Like a hummingbird’s,” he muses.
He drops his hand and leaves the room without another look at me. I shriek with frustration when I hear the lock click shut.
The next day drags by. Alexi brings me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I go into the bathroom and shut the door until he leaves.
He doesn’t kill me. That’s something.
The next morning, I’m desperate enough to try to get him to talk.
“Thank you for breakfast.” I can tell he made these potato pancakes, and I try to swallow down the lump in my throat, remembering the last time he made them for me, my stupid hope that maybe our night together meant something to him.
He lifts a brow, but nods. “You’re welcome.”
“Could you…” My intention drifts away like smoke as I stare at him. Why are all the things that are bad for you have to be so pretty? Alexi’s wearing a black t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and jeans that cup his ass in a way that’s just criminal.
“Yes?”
I mentally slap myself on the back of the head. “I thought you could sit with me, we could have breakfast together? You certainly made enough.” I nod down to the tray, piled high with the drankini, an enormous bowl of kasha, a pitcher of orange juice, a bowl of sliced strawberries, and a pile of rye toast. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to fatten me up.”
He frowns. “You should gain weight. You worked too much and didn’t eat enough. Your curves are gone.”
My mouth drops open and I stare at him like a simpleton. Curves? I went from the girl who couldn’t lose weight – even if she starved herself – to a size four. I can see my ribs when I look in the mirror and thought I finally had the perfect figure.
Still, he sits down and I take it as a win. We eat in silence for a moment and I let myself enjoy the food. The kasha was thick and perfect with a little milk and strawberries. “I haven’t had porridge since I was a little girl,” I volunteer, “I’d forgotten how good it is.”
“Hmm.”
“Did your mother teach you how to cook?” I ask.
He leans back, taking a sip of coffee. “My father would have beaten the shit out of me if he’d found me in the kitchen.”
“That tracks,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Maybe bringing up his mother was a bad idea. She’d passed away a few years before my father was murdered. Cancer, I think. “Do you think we could talk about what’s happened?” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Isn’t that the same sentence I used at breakfast the last time? Will he shut me down again?
Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Alexi eyes me impassively. “My Pakhan was quite clear on the call, wasn’t he?”
“Okay, well- sure.” I’m really screwing this up. “Why did you kidnap me? You terrified me, you threatened my sister’s safety! You left me in your murder shack for two days!”
I’m not sure if his frown is attempting to cover up a smile or if he thinks I’m unhinged and he’s humoring me. “You were there for four and a half hours.”
“Oh. Well, time flies when you’re handcuffed to a torture chair in a pitch-black room.” Admittedly, I’m failing in my attempt to soften him up.
“I abducted you and your sister because that is what my Pakhan ordered,” he says.
Something occurs to me. “If he’d told you to kill us, would you have done it?” I whisper.
Something shifts behind his implacable gaze and he rises, taking the tray.
“Can we just-”
He shuts and locks the door.
Alexi…
Leaning against the wall outside her room, I fight the urge to throw the tray into the nearest window, just shatter the fuck out of every breakable surface in this building.
Her sea-glass eyes, looking up at me imploringly when she asked if I would have killed her. I force myself to walk into the kitchen and put the tray down gently, gripping the edge of the granite countertop.
Would I kill her if my bastard father ordered it?
The vision of my cousin, bloody and desperate, kneeling on the floor at that grotesque dinner party surges back and I grit my teeth. I will never know if he was guilty or innocent. I slit his throat because I was ordered to. That was the night that killed all emotion in me. Regret. Fear. Grief. My cold and barren soul worked just fine until my Kolibri fluttered back into my life.
My phone rings and I answer it quickly, grateful for any distraction.
“Who is this?”
“Alexi? Hello, it’s Boris Siderov from-”
“The restaurant. Yes, I know.”
“Oh, well… I was hoping you might know where Lucya Dubrovina is. She hasn’t shown up for work for three days, and she’s not answering her phone. I even sent one of the servers to her apartment and the front desk girl said they haven’t seen her either.”
“Why are you asking me?” I snap.
“That night when she went home early,” he’s stumbling over the words, “you called to tell us to hold her tips from the night, that’s how I have your number. She’s never mentioned dating anyone, but… you are the only one I can think of to call.”
Boris is a nice kid, I’ve seen him hustling around the restaurant and the club area.
“She is safe. But she won’t be returning to work,” I say.
“What?” Boris explodes, “Why? Is she all right?”
“As I said, she’s fine. But she won’t be coming back. Lucya is…” I always guard every word that leaves my mouth but this time, the words fly free. “She’s getting married.”
“To who?” he says, clearly upset. “She never talked about anyone!”
I hang up.
Saying the words out loud makes them real, somehow. I knew my role in my Bratva. I could count on one hand how many men I knew who were Vors and had a wife and a family, too. It never even occurred to me. Now that it is a fact, a certainty, my dick is hard as fuck.
I’m going to marry Lucya, my Kolibri. Someone who will be all mine. This alien feeling of happiness is unsettling, and I spend the rest of the day cleaning my guns and sharpening my knives, trying to regulate myself.
All my hard-earned calm disappears when I open the door to her room to bring in dinner and she’s waiting for me in a pretty green dress that matches her eyes and a hopeful expression.
“I was thinking I could eat in the kitchen with you tonight? It’s not like I can go anywhere.” Her smile falters a bit at my blank stare, but she sticks to it. “Please?”
“You’ve earned some freedom,” I agree, holding the door open for her as she darts through like the little hummingbird she is.
“I really like this kitchen,” she says, looking happy and sated after plowing through her beef pelmenis and Olivier salad. When it looked like she was slowing down, I’d piled more on her plate. “The kitchen in our apartment is white and bland.” Her expression falters. “Though I guess I won’t be seeing it again, so…”
“All your things have been boxed up,” I say, “they’re stored on the second floor of the apartment, you can sort through it when you’re ready.”
“There’s a second floor here?” she laughs, “Any secret passageways or hidden staircases?”
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be a secret, would they?” I put two plates of apple cake on the table.
“Why, Alexi Turgenev, was that humor?” Lucya teases, “Who are you?”
At this moment, I’m not sure myself.
“Eat your dessert.”
“Will you show me if I eat all this lovely cake?” Her bargaining skills are not strong, her fork is already digging into the cake.
I fight back a smile. “Finish your cake and we’ll see.”
“You’re definitely trying to fatten me up,” she grumbles, just before stuffing an enormous piece of cake in her mouth.
