Chapter 3
Alina
My heart drums in a dizzying beat as I walk fast, passing two tour groups. I still can’t believe I’m out here, on the streets of Geneva… that I escaped.
I didn’t plan on it.
I didn’t even think it was possible.
When I entered the small bathroom to clean up, escape was the last thing on my mind.
But there was that small open window, and suddenly, it dawned on me that I was in Geneva.
Not in the middle of the Pacific, stuck on a yacht with no way out.
Not in some heavily armed compound in Russia, where Alexei will likely have me reside.
No, I was in a regular medical facility in the middle of Old Town Geneva, and this was my chance.
I didn’t think twice about it. I didn’t analyze the consequences and implications. I just climbed up on the windowsill, wriggled my head and shoulders through the opening, and tumbled out, hands first, onto the cobblestone street.
Now my palms are scraped, and one wrist may or may not be sprained, but I have escaped.
I am free.
I turn the corner, heading for the lakefront.
I don’t know where I’m going, but my instinct is to stay with the crowds, to blend in as much as possible.
A clothing store appears to my right, and I hurry in there, only to remember that I don’t have my wallet or phone or anything that would allow me to pay—or to contact my brothers.
That is… assuming I want to contact my brothers.
I stop in front of a stylishly dressed mannequin, suddenly nauseated as the headache returns, squeezing my temples in a brutal vise. The initial euphoria of my impromptu escape is wearing off, and I’m realizing that I’m not out of the woods. Far from it.
For one thing, I’m less than five blocks from the clinic, and Alexei could find me at any moment.
But even if I were to miraculously evade him and return to my family, what am I going to do if Alexei goes back on his word and comes after Nikolai and Slava again?
Technically, I upheld our bargain by marrying him, but what if that’s not how he sees it?
Not to mention, he could come after my other brothers in an effort to get me back.
Assuming he’d want me back, given the diagnosis.
And that’s another thing. The diagnosis.
Running away doesn’t change the fact that a tumor is growing in my brain—and a baby in my stomach.
Those two are still as incompatible as ever, and the thought of having to make those agonizing choices without Alexei, of facing any of it without him…
I swallow, my throat burning, and turn away from the mannequin before the saleswoman behind the counter notices the tears that are suddenly veiling my vision.
Dammit. How pathetic am I? I shouldn’t need Alexei for moral support, or for anything, really.
I have no idea what came over me today, why I attacked him in the dressing room like a sex-starved felon, but I’m going to chalk that up to momentary stress-induced madness.
Or maybe early-pregnancy hormones. That’s a thing, right?
Either way, I refuse to need a man who manipulated, threatened, and murdered his way into my life.
Whatever anxiety I’m feeling at the thought of being away from him is, more than likely, some manifestation of Stockholm syndrome or whatever abused wives feel for their controlling husbands.
Not that he’s ever been abusive toward me, but I can’t forget what kind of man he is…
or how marriage to that kind of man turned out for my mother.
Fuck. Now I’m really nauseated.
I hurry out of the store and run into a small alley, where I fall onto all fours and retch next to a dumpster, my head throbbing with a violence that makes me want to curl up and die.
“Too much to drink?” asks a German-accented female voice, and I somehow find the strength to lift my head.
I find a tall, lean blonde with a dozen facial piercings regarding me with a sympathetic smile from a few steps away. Before I can respond, she walks over and crouches next to me, handing me a packet of wet wipes and a stainless-steel bottle. “Here. This should help.”
If I weren’t so miserable, I would never impose on a stranger like this, but I am and I accept the offering.
Staying on my knees, I pull out two wipes and clean my face and hands before opening the bottle to take a sip of what turns out to be lemon-flavored water.
I swish it around before spitting it out.
Then I take another sip that I swallow. Thankfully, it stays down, even though the nausea is still intense.
“Thank you.” I throw the used wipes in the dumpster and hand the bottle and the unused wipes back to her. My voice is rough and scratchy, barely recognizable as mine as I say, “That’s very kind of you.”
She shrugs and grins. “Hey, we’ve all been there, right?”
I manage a weak smile back. I doubt many people have been in my exact situation, but I’m not going to get into that with her. She looks to be about my age, and judging by the well-worn backpack slung over her shoulders, she’s likely traveling around Europe, enjoying being young and carefree.
“Thanks again,” I say and force myself to rise to my feet. A wave of dizziness nearly fells me, and she notices, grabbing my arm to hold me upright before I can grab on to the edge of the trash receptacle to steady myself.
“Hey there, you okay?” Her pierced brows furrow as she studies me. “Do you need me to get any medical help?”
“No, I’m—” I take a deep breath to quell another surge of nausea. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t smell like alcohol.”
“Yeah, no, I…” I hesitate, then decide to give her a portion of the truth. “I’m pregnant.”
Her sky-blue eyes widen. “Oh. Gotcha.” She scans me up and down, her eyes lingering on my flat stomach. “Still pretty early, huh?”
I grimace. “Very.”
She must realize that she’s still propping me up because she asks, “Are you able to stand?” At my nod, she lets go of me, steps back, and scans me again. Her gaze narrows. “Do you have a phone or anything?”
“Umm, no. I… forgot my purse.”
“Do you need me to call anyone for you? Take you anywhere? Do you live here, or are you visiting?” She throws out the questions without pausing for a single breath. Before I can begin to reply, she says, “Never mind. Let’s get you away from this stinky trash first. My hostel is right next door.”
Gripping my arm again, she tows me to a weather-beaten door in the alley that I hadn’t noticed before.
Bemused, I let myself get dragged into what turns out to be a small, dimly lit lounge populated by several gently worn recliners and tables.
An unmanned reception desk is on the other end.
A rickety-looking spiral staircase occupies one of the corners, and two young women descend it, laughing and chatting in Italian before exiting out of a set of doors on the opposite wall.
A hostel. How interesting. I’ve never been in one. Come to think of it, I’ve never been in a hotel that wasn’t five stars or better.
The blonde drags me to one of the recliners and pushes me into it. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
She disappears up the staircase and reappears a minute later with a tall glass of water and a packet of candies. Ginger candies, I note with surprise as she hands them to me.
“I get motion-sick, and these help,” she explains. “Supposed to be good for pregnancy too.”
“Thanks. That’s so nice of you.” I gladly chug the water and stick a candy in my mouth. It’s sweet and spicy, and I’m not sure how much it’s helping, but I’m too grateful to the blonde to spit it out. Instead, I transfer it to one cheek and say, “I’m Alina. And you are?”
“Birgit.” She cocks her head, studying me. “You’re not American, are you? The way you said your name…”
“Oh, yeah, I’m from Russia. I studied at an American school, though, so…”
“Ah, that explains the accent. Or lack of it.” She plops into the chair opposite me. “I was hoping to visit Russia this year, but I got talked out of it. Unsafe for a young Western woman traveling alone and all that.”
“It probably is,” I admit. And not just for a young Western woman. My brothers never let me go anywhere without a bodyguard—though that was mostly due to all the enemies my family had acquired in their ruthless climb to the top.
Enemies that include the Leonovs, my husband’s family.
At the thought of Alexei, a peculiar heaviness settles low in my stomach. It’s not anxiety or fear, but something more ill-defined, an unease that feels almost like… guilt.
No, that’s ridiculous. I can’t possibly feel guilty that I ran.
I don’t owe Alexei anything, no matter what happened between us during that momentary madness.
My husband—or more appropriately, my stalker—took away my freedom.
He took away all my choices. So when I saw an opportunity for escape, I went for it.
It’s what anyone would do in my situation… right?
“—or living here?”
I blink, realizing I tuned Birgit out. “Sorry, say that again?”
Thankfully, she doesn’t seem offended by my lack of attention. “Are you visiting or living here?” she asks, carefully enunciating each word.
Maybe she thinks pregnancy is messing with my brain. Which is possible. Along with the other thing. Which is more than possible, given that it’s a fucking tumor in my brain.
Shit. I’m spacing again. “Just visiting,” I say before she writes me off as a total ditz. “What about you? Why are you here?”
She makes a face. “I’m… finding myself, I guess.
I did all the right things—went to a university, got a degree, got a boring-ass office job in Frankfurt, got an apartment, and then…
then my mom got sick. Breast cancer. She died six months ago, and I realized life is too fucking short not to do what you want.
You know? So I’m trying to figure out what that is.
I know it’s not my boring-ass job or the boring-ass life I had before. ”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry about your mom.”