Caroline
I'm not quite sure exactly how long I sit there.
The only sign of time passing is the growing feeling of staticky numbness in my butt cheeks.
One goes first, then the other, until it feels like I'm sitting on a cloud.
Eventually, the ugly tears slow down, then stop, leaving me feeling scraped out and empty.
Sometime after that come footsteps. Not Afon's. These are lighter, quicker. The woman in gray.
"Miss Oglethorpe?" She crouches down in front of me, but her face shows no signs of surprise. Something tells me it's not the first time she's found someone crying in Lukas Lazarev's hallway. "Mr. Lazarev would like to see you and Mr. Satyrin in the morning. Eight o'clock. He says it's important."
"Wonderful," I mutter with sarcasm. "I'm sure that's gonna go swimmingly."
"Can I get you anything? Tea? A blanket?"
"No," I sigh, well aware that I'm being a stone-cold bitch to someone who's been nothing but nice to me. "Thank you."
She nods, straightens up, and leaves me there.
I don't go back to the bedroom. I find a guest room two doors down that nobody seems to be using and lie on top of the covers in my clothes. But I don't sleep. What would be the point? There's nothing worth dreaming about anymore.
In the morning, I find that somebody has left a fresh stack of clothes outside the door I chose. I still can't decide if Lukas's omniscience is terrifying or reassuring.
I take a shower because my own B.O. is grossing me out, then get dressed in the new outfit. It's five to eight by the time I emerge, so I make my way to Lukas's study. I walk in with my chin up, because that's the only part of me that still works.
Thanks, Dad.
Afon is already there. He's standing by the window with his back to the door. When I come in, he turns. His face is the worst version of the concrete face, the one from the morning he put me on the bus. It's closed off, chained, deadbolted. Real Ye shall not pass type shit.
I look away and shudder.
Lukas sits in the same chair as before, hands folded.
There's no coffee tray this time, no little cookies in a tin.
Just him and a single manila folder on the table.
Unlike the silver cloches that have housed some of the greatest meals I've ever stuffed into my face over the last few days, I have zero desire to see what that manila thing is hiding.
I get the feeling it isn't going to make me happy.
Lukas looks between the two of us. I know damn well that he suspects something has gone sour between us; he just strikes me as an observant kind of man in that regard. But whatever he may or may not see, he doesn't comment.
"There's been a complication," he says.
"Of course there is," I mumble. "Why wouldn't there be? Easy is overrated."
Lukas smiles, though it's tinged with sadness. "My sources indicate that Reznik knows your name, Miss Oglethorpe. He's done his homework. He knows who your father was, where you live, where you work." He taps the folder once. "You're not hard to find."
The cold comes surging back into my stomach. "So what does that mean?"
"It means that going home is not an option for you right now.
" He spreads his huge hands wide. "Therefore, for the duration of this war, until Reznik has been properly handled, you are at risk.
Seeing as how you are incapable of protecting yourself—I mean no offense, by the way; that's a simple statement of fact—that means your safety has become our responsibility. "
I glance at Afon, who is suddenly fascinated by the stretch of floor between his feet.
"You said we'd be under your protection," I say. "Now and forever after. That's what you said."
"And you will be." Lukas leans forward, and the room shrinks like it did before. I'm starting to think he might be a witch, the way he bends space and time to suit his liking. "But there are people I can put a wall around, and people I cannot, and the difference between them is simple."
He looks at Afon knowingly, and I frown. I don't like what's passing between the two of them telepathically.
"Care to explain?" I snap. "Some of us are new to all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit."
Lukas sighs and redirects his eyes back on mine. "Family," he intones. "I protect family. The Bratva protects its own. It always has. It's the one thing that's never changed in all the years I've been alive."
He says it as if that answers everything, but I don't get it. I look at Afon again for some kind of explanation. He's finally looking at me, but his jaw is so tight I think it might crack.
"Tell her," Lukas urges.
But he doesn't say anything.
"Will one of you two cryptic motherfu—"
"We have to get married," Afon blurts.
A pause.
Another pause.
A third pause.
How many pauses can live in a row?
This many.
More.
And then…
"Excuse my French," I say in disbelief, "but what in the ever-loving fuck are you talking about?"
But Afon is once again riveted by the tile at his toes. He refuses to look up at me, even for a second.
So I divert my rage to Lukas. "Well? Are you gonna speak up for fucking Pinocchio over here?"
Lukas is calm and unruffled despite my brewing temper tantrum.
"A wife makes you family. Family is under the umbrella.
It's not symbolic, Miss Oglethorpe. Well, not only symbolic.
It is also legal, it's practical, it changes what I can and can't do for you.
As Afon's wife, you have his name, his protection, his resources.
Reznik would have to come through the entire organization to get to you, and he is not strong enough to do that. "
"This is insane," I state.
"It's merely a piece of paper," Lukas says. "It can be undone later, if you both choose to go that route. But for now, it's the strongest wall I can build around you, and I'd rather build it before the war starts than after I've lost you."
I look at Afon. He still hasn't said a single word by way of explanation. Zero attempt whatsoever to paper this over, to frame it in a way that makes a single iota of fucking sense. He's just standing there like a statue, taking it.
And that's what does it. That's what makes the anger come up out of the cold, hot and fast.
"You know what?" I snarl "I'm getting real fucking sick of your Stoic, Tortured Statue Act.
Yeah, life is hard, and you've been dealt some bad breaks.
But guess what? So has everybody else on the goddamn planet!
The universe just throws shit at you, over and over, whether or not you like it or you're ready for it.
And yes, taking it all on the chin is admirable, bearing those scars proudly is admirable, standing up as a shield between hard things and the people you love is admirable.
But at a certain point, you also have to actually act.
You have to make choices. You have to walk into things with your damn eyes open.
You can't just be concrete all the time.
Concrete is inert and dead. Life is flowing and liquid. You can't just wait. You have to live."
I'm huffing and puffing by the time I finish. My hair is frizzed like I'm actually steaming and my hands are clenched into tight, white-knuckled balls at my sides.
As for Afon?
He hasn't moved an inch.
Concrete, even now.
"You're not even going to say anything?" I snap at him. "You just dropped a bomb on my entire life last night, and now, I'm supposed to marry you? And you're standing there like a—like a fucking coatrack?"
"It's your choice," Afon intones, eyes still aimed down.
"How fucking dare you?!" I scream. "You've spent two weeks deciding everything for me, and now, it's my choice? Now, when it's the worst possible thing?"
Silent. Silent as rock.
"I need to think." I whip around, furious with no outlet. "I can't decide this in five minutes."
Lukas clears his throat. "You have today.
The war starts tomorrow. After that, I can't change the shape of what I'm doing.
" He stands with me, slow and enormous, and crosses to the door to hold it open for me.
"I suggest the two of you find some time to talk.
" He pauses with his hand on the doorframe.
"Afon, there's a car waiting. I suggest you take her to the apartment.
She should understand what she'd be marrying before she decides. "
We drive for hours in the back of a black SUV with a man up front who doesn't say a word. Afon doesn't say much, either. He sits on his side and I sit on mine. The space between us could swallow a planet.
"Whose apartment are we going to?" I finally ask, somewhere around the George Washington Bridge.
"Mine," Afon replies.
"You still have an apartment in the city? I thought it was wooden shack or bust for you."
"I still have a few things stashed away here and there." He looks out the window. "I told you the Bratva's work was ugly. I didn't tell you it paid."
The building is on Central Park West. Limestone and gargoyles, a green awning, a doorman who straightens up when he sees Afon and says, "Mr. Satyrin. Been a while," like Afon vanished into the mountains last week instead of six months ago.
"Carl," Afon greets. That's it. They must be great friends. Probably send each other Christmas cards.
We go up in an elevator that opens directly into the apartment. Not a hallway—directly into the apartment. As in, the whole floor.
I just stand there and gawk.
The ceilings are easily fourteen feet, maybe higher, with crown molding so intricate it looks like frosting piped by someone who just took a lot of Adderall.
Unbroken, frameless panes of window glass run the entire western wall, and beyond them, Central Park unspools in a white tangle of snow-laden trees, the reservoir a silver coin in the distance.
The floors are some dark herringbone wood that's been polished to a mirror sheen, scattered with handwoven Turkish rugs.