Caroline
Two black SUVs show up an hour later.
I'm sitting with Afon in the veterinary hospital's waiting room, my hand in his, when the door opens and a pair of men walk in.
They're big. Not big like Afon, who's all muscle and bad attitude, but big like a caveman's club is big.
These two are wearing suits under their coats. One of them has an earpiece.
"Mr. Satyrin," the first one says in the hushed, reverent tone you'd use to greet the Queen of England. "We're here to bring you in."
Afon doesn't get up right away. "The dog comes with us."
"Of course," the man says. "We've got a crate. The vet's already cleared him to travel once he's stable, and Mr. Lazarev has a team waiting on site to receive Mr. Wolf and continue his care."
Afon looks at me. I shrug. "Guess we're going."
We wait another hour for Wolf to come up from the drugs. They let us see him before we leave. He's groggy, one shoulder shaved and bandaged, an IV in his leg. His tail thumps once when he sees Afon. Afon kneels by the cage and puts his face right up to the bars.
"I love you, you silly animal," he says, real quiet. "Don't ever do that again."
Wolf licks his nose.
They load Wolf into a padded crate in the back of one of the SUVs.
I sit in the back seat with Afon. The doors thunk shut.
After two weeks of beans and a snowmobile and a burning cabin, it feels insane to be in an Escalade, with buttery leather seats and an honest-to-goodness TV screen embedded in the headrest in front of me.
"This is weird," I tell Afon. "Like, very weird."
"Brace yourself," he warns. "It's about to get a whole lot weirder."
We drive for a long time. South, then off the highway, then up a private road with a wrought-iron gate. The gate opens before we even slow down, as cameras installed on top of the posts swivel ominously to track our progress.
The house—well, I want to call it a house, but that's like calling the ocean a puddle—rises up out of the trees.
Stone and glass, modern and ancient at the same time.
Lights gleam in every window. The fountain in the middle of the circle drive has been drained for winter, but the stone gargoyles carved into the spout still snarl and gnash their teeth.
"Whose place is this?" I ask.
"Lukas's. Well, one of Lukas's," Afon says. "He has a lot of them."
The SUV stops and a man hurries up from the front stairs to open my door. Another man is already at the back, easing Wolf's crate out like it's full of eggs.
I climb out into the cold and just stand there a second, looking up at all of it, wondering what in the Alice in Wonderland I have gotten myself into.
"This feels a bit like overkill, doesn't it?"
"That's how he does things." Afon comes around to stand next to me.
He's still in his bloody sweater, hair a mess, beard wild, and he looks like a wild grizzly bear that somebody dragged into high society.
"But make no mistake: It all comes with strings attached.
Lukas is not a bad man, but he is consistent in one regard.
He gives first. Then you find out the price. "
A woman in a gray maid's uniform comes prancing down the steps to meet us. With a curtsy, she says, "Mr. Satyrin! Miss Oglethorpe! Welcome. Mr. Lazarev is expecting you, but he said to let you clean up and eat first. There's no rush."
"Where's the dog going?" Afon asks bluntly.
"We've converted one of the guest rooms into a medical bay, sir. A veterinary tech will be at his side throughout the night, with further checkups arranged for the morning. Rest assured, he is in good hands.
Afon nods, satisfied with that answer. He follows the man with the crate inside.
I follow Afon, because that's just what I do now.
They put us in a room. One room, with one bed. Not so long ago, that would have been the cause of a very major freak-out on my part. Now, though, I can't imagine every sleeping by myself again.
Although sharing this particular bed with Afon is basically like sleeping alone.
The thing is so huge that I might have to call him if we happen to find ourselves on opposite ends.
There's kings, California kings, and then this contraption.
I don't even think they have a name for it. Jupiter King? Galactic King?
Off to the side is a bathroom bigger than my parents' living room in Manhattan. Matching terry cloth robes hang on the door, a perfect, fluffy set of two.
There's rich, like my family was.
And then there's rich rich, like the Lazarevs.
I'm learning lots today.
I'm also learning something about our benevolent overlord's assessment of the current situation.
"They think we're together," I say.
Afon looks up from where he's checking the windows. He can't help it. "Barb thought we were married."
"Yeah, well, you sure set Barb straight, didn't you?"
He stops and sighs, rubbing his temples. "I was wrong about a lot of things in that diner," he says.
I let it go. I'm too tired to fight, and honestly, I don't want to. What do I want? A shower would sure be nice. I'm kinda sick of having a second skin of dried canine blood, thank you very much. If I never saw these filthy clothes again, that would be alright as well.
Mostly, I just want to submerge myself in hot water like a frog for a minimum of an hour, then bundle up in that insanely soft robe and feast until I look like a frog.
Luckily, Lukas and his staff have prepared for me to do exactly that.
The shower is heavenly, borderline orgasmic, so good it should probably be illegal.
How come no one ever told me that you could have six simultaneous showerheads blasting you from every direction at once?
The guys at NASA are really coming up with some amazing technology these days, I swear.
And the guys in Lukas's kitchen are, too.
Because when I reemerge, I'm greeted by a room service cart bearing several silver cloches.
Afon and I take off the lids to reveal dish after dish.
Roast chicken seasoned with rosemary, loaves of freshly toasted French baguette, pats of butter, vegetables I've never even heard of. It's all amazing.
And best of all…
"No beans," I say.
"No beans," Afon agrees. "That's good. I was getting kinda tired of them."
I laugh like a hyena, and then we eat like hyenas. I don't even slow down long enough to be embarrassed. Afon goes through three entire chickens and half the bread, and while I don't quite match his output—input?—I still consume more calories than I've ever consumed in one sitting before.
After, he showers too. He comes out with a towel around his waist and the wound at his hip cleaned and freshly taped, courtesy of the first aid kit that was resting on the counter when we arrived. There's a stack of clothes on the dresser that fit him, which means somebody knew his size.
"He's been keeping tabs on you," I say.
"He keeps tabs on everybody." Afon pulls a black sweater over his head. Black jeans. Of course. "Get some sleep. He'll send for us when he's ready."
I crawl into the giant bed. The sheets are cold at first, deliciously so, and then quickly warm to the perfect temperature. Afon lies down next to me, on top of the covers, hands crossed over his chest, like he did in the hut that first cold night.
"You can get under the blanket," I tell him. "We're past the Berlin Wall."
He grins, almost shyly. It's so fucking endearing that I can't help but steal a quick kiss from him. Then he gets under the blanket. I squirm around until I can press my back to his front and his arm comes around me, bolting me to him like a seatbelt.
That's all it takes. With that, even here, in this strange, soft palace, with armed men patrolling the halls, I sleep.
In the morning, we get a report after the veterinarian's visit. Wolf is doing fine. He's eating, which the vet says is the best sign there is. A dog's hunger is a reliable barometer for the state of his internal affairs.
Afon and I spend nearly an hour on the mudroom floor with the dog's head in his lap before the woman in gray comes and tells us Mr. Lazarev is ready for our audience.
She leads us through the house. My God, it goes on forever.
Hallways a mile long, each lined with art that, though I know nothing about the subject, must surely be priceless.
Fireplaces big enough to park a Mini Cooper in are studded in the walls here and there.
And then we're at a set of double doors, and she opens them, and there he is.
Lukas Lazarev.
I knew he'd be big. Afon said as much. But the man is enormous, even sitting down.
He's in a chair by the window with a view of the whole snow-covered grounds.
Silver hair, silver beard, dark gray eyes.
His hands are folded in his lap, and like Afon's, they're covered in scars and tattoos, most faded with age.
He's wearing a tight black sweater that shows impressive muscle, especially for a man his age.
"Afon," he says, inclining his head with royal aura. "You look like hell."
"Says the oldest bastard I've ever laid eyes on," Afon retorts.
Lukas's mouth twitches. "We both got old, didn't we, my friend?" Then his eyes come to me, and I shiver under their chill. "Miss Oglethorpe."
"Mr. Lazarev. Pleasure to meet you." My lawyer voice. I didn't mean to use it, but it comes out of me. It just feels like a situation where I need to put my best foot forward.
"Sit, both of you. Please." He gestures at the couch across from him.
We sit. A tray of coffee waits on the table, alongside a plate of those little cookies that come in tins.
"I'd offer you something stronger, but it's a bit early for that, and my wife would kill me if I started drinking without her. "
Afon doesn't even acknowledge the coffee. I pour myself a cup, mostly to have something to do with my hands, because I'm starting to feed off of Afon's feeling that we're walking out onto some very thin ice here.