14. Katerina
CHAPTER 14
Katerina
I sleep like the dead.
After so many hours, I wake up in a drowsy fog to fumble my way to the bathroom. A minute or two later, I’m collapsing in bed again, burrowing deeper under the blankets.
Dreams elude me. Thoughts do too.
For the hours I’m asleep, I’m hibernating in a black void where nothing else exists.
I wake when it’s dark out, aware I’ve been asleep for a long time without even checking the time. My body aches in protest as I push myself up in bed and blink around the shadowy room. I’m alone.
The plum sky visible through the window tells me it’s late at night. Did I sleep a whole day away?
I rub fists against my face to clear the sleep from my eyes and then cautiously peel back the duvet. My legs swing over the side of the bed, feeling like foreign attachments that don’t work right. They’re stiff and achy, probably difficult to walk on.
I’m pantsless.
I’m in nothing but a huge t-shirt. A familiar musk is woven into the cotton fabric. Something warm and smoky.
It’s a scent I’ve smelled before.
My eyes close as I place the scent. It belongs to the Russian Bear.
I’m wearing his shirt.
Only a day or two ago, I would’ve been irritated by such a revelation. Given what I’ve been through lately, it’s the opposite. I find a strange comfort in the fact that I’m swallowed up by the soft cotton fabric that’s his t-shirt. I’m enveloped in the smell of him.
If I’m honest, I don’t even want to take it off.
As sleep fades away and my consciousness returns, so do memories of what happened at the dinner event Roman brought me to.
Uncle Leonid had pummeled me like I had wronged him . His fists came down one after the other with a vicious fury I’ve never experienced. You’d think I’d posed a mortal threat to him the way he attacked me. The violence he unleashed was terrifying.
It’s not like I’ve never been hit before.
Both as a kid and an adult, I’ve been in precarious situations where someone put their hands on me.
Leonid’s attack was something else. It was brutal and endless. I’m not sure if he would’ve stopped had Roman not shown up…
I limp to the bathroom and flick on the light. It’s bright and blinding, making me squint until I adjust. But I’m more concerned with the reflection staring back at me—the woman in the mirror looks rough .
Her face is swollen and discolored. Her eyes are glassy and sad.
My throat aches as I swallow and remember how much it hurts just to talk. Leonid had hit me right in the jaw.
I’m lucky nothing’s broken.
Releasing a small breath, I decide to take a shower. Showers have always made me feel better. Even at my lowest lows, when I was just a stray on the streets with two bucks and some shoestrings to my name, a nice, hot shower could make me feel like the most beautiful princess in the world.
Probably because they were so difficult to come by sometimes…
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the steamy cloud squeaky clean. My curls are freshly washed as I take to twisting them into sections to air dry.
The bedroom door opens in the middle of one of my twist outs.
Roman enters carrying a tray in one hand and folded up clothes in the other. He sets both down and walks over to the bathroom doorway once he sees me in front of the mirror.
“My kitty cat is awake,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. He folds his thick, well-defined arms over his equally as thick and well-defined chest. “I was worried you’d never wake up.”
He’s teasing. I catch that much as I meet his gaze in the mirror and spot the twinkle in his eyes. I divert mine back to my own reflection and focus on my twist outs.
“I’ve never slept a whole day away like that before.”
“You were exhausted. Your body took a lot.”
“Tell me about it. I feel it. Why am I wearing your shirt?”
His left brow ticks up. “You don’t remember?”
“Everything after the fist met my face is kind of a blur.”
“You joke about it. But it isn’t funny. Leonid will die for what he’s done.”
I don’t say anything, my heart pitter-pattering inside my chest. Roman speaks so casually of murder, I’m not sure what he expects from me. Murder— violence in general —has always been a hard line in the sand for me, even as a criminal.
But he tells me he’s going to kill a man for harming me as if it’s some love declaration. I’m supposed to thank him.
“Your dress was torn and you were exhausted,” he goes on, answering my question. “I gave you a bath but had nothing else to put on you. Because you were freezing and I didn’t want to make you wait by going to fetch Ivanka and her wardrobe, I pulled the shirt off my back.”
“And I’ve been wearing it ever since…”
“I’ve brought you more clothes. And food. You need to eat.”
An emotion I can’t describe wells up inside my chest. Some kind of panic that’s stifling. Almost like I’m locked away in a cage with no means of escape.
How can I go from finding comfort in wearing Roman’s t-shirt to feeling panic that I’m in his custody?
It’s like I’m at war with myself. Conflicted over everything that’s happened.
Roman must sense I’m stuck in my head. He abandons the doorway to come up behind me. Our reflections are jarring in the mirror—a Black woman of average height and size with purple hair that’s been twisted into sections and whose face is more swollen than usual, and the man who stands behind her, engulfing her by every measure. Roman’s like a mountain looming over me, broad and strong yet undeniably sexy and attractive.
He reaches up to stroke my twisted hair, his touch slow and surprisingly gentle.
I find myself watching him in the mirror, studying every nuance that flits across his chiseled face.
He’s curious, intrigued by my hair. He touches it softly as though cautious he’ll hurt me.
“Your hair,” he says, “why do you do it like this?”
“Like what?”
“These braids.”
I laugh. “They’re not braids. They’re twist outs.”
“Twist… outs?”
“Yeah, it’s a protective style after washing. You leave them to dry like this and when you undo them, they leave your hair in more defined curls.”
He makes a grunting noise like he’s digesting the information. I can’t help laughing some more as he strokes my hair, his gaze set on the thick lavender strands. You’d think he’s studying something he’s never seen before.
Then I realize… that’s exactly the case. Roman still has a thick Russian accent. It’s unlikely he came across many women like me where he’s from.
“What do you think of it?” I prompt in my own form of curiosity.
“It’s different…” he admits, his warm palm sliding down the nape of my neck and then resting on my back. He meets my gaze in the mirror the same way I’d done to him. “But not bad different. Different can be good. Your hair… it’s very soft... like a cloud. I like how it feels to touch.”
My lips quirk in an almost smile. “I wish I had a leave-in moisturizer. It’ll dry out soon if I don’t add any product.”
“Leave-in,” he repeats in his thick Russian accent. “I’ll have one of my men pick it up. What is this leave-in? It’s in a bottle? For your hair?”
“Yes, Roman,” I snicker. “It’s a product for hair. And you don’t have to get it for me. I’m just a pet, right?”
I sidestep around him ’til I’m headed for the bathroom door and he’s left behind by the mirror. I don’t make it far into the bedroom before he’s shadowing behind me. His presence is palpable, something I can feel .
“Why is it purple?” he asks.
“Because I dyed it that way. In case you haven’t noticed, I like to be different.”
“Difficult is more like it,” he says. He gestures to the tray of food he brought. “Eat, devochka. You need to regain your energy. Right now you’re frail and weak.”
“I’ve never been frail a day in my life.”
“The bruises say otherwise.”
I roll my eyes, though I take him up on the offer. My stomach is reaching the point of growling. I sit down in the armchair and uncover the dish of food on the tray.
Another Russian meal.
This time, I’m being given more than salad and a couple dumplings.
Dumplings are present, of course, but there’s also some noodles, meat, and gravy that actually smell delicious. It takes me a second too long to realize it’s beef stroganoff.
I dig in without warning, picking up my fork and shoveling a few mouthfuls.
Roman stands and watches me.
Honestly, I’m so damn hungry, I kind of forget he’s there. It’s like my hunger didn’t register until I had food in front of me. Now my stomach aches, begging to be filled. I swallow another mouthful of beef stroganoff and then tear into the baked roll that’s come with the dinner.
Roman tilts his head slightly to the side. “My kitty cat is starving.”
I freeze midchew, my skin warming. “Sorry,” I say, swallowing. “I guess it’s not very ladylike to suck down food like a Hoover vacuum.”
“You’re hungry. Don’t worry about it. It’s just the two of us. Besides, I like this side of you.”
“Hmmm?” I hum as I dip the roll in the gravy sauce. “You like what now?”
“This side of you. This… how do Americans say it… very real side. Not fake.”
I smile at him. “How long have you been speaking English?”
“Devochka,” he scolds.
“I like your accent. We’re even.”
“My kitty cat likes pushing buttons. She likes being bad. But I wonder if she’d be so bad if she knew she could be punished.” He closes the gap between us, stalking over to where I’m seated in the armchair. He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and peers down at me like he’s studying my face. “The swelling is going down. How do you feel?”
I swallow down my last bite of food. My skin’s only grown warmer the closer he’s come. The second he’s touched me. His skin on mine, however slight.
“The food’s helped,” I mumble.
“I can already tell. You’re getting chattier and chattier.”
I’d laugh at his teasing if not for feeling like there’s an elephant in the room I need to address.
“Roman, uh… I should probably thank you for what you did. For stepping in when you found me in the closet.” I blink to fight away the emotion that wells up in teardrop form. “You have no idea how relieved I was. It was… he wouldn’t stop…”
“No need to thank me. I’ve told you, anyone who touches you dies. And if it should happen again, you are to tell me. Understand, devochka?”
“But what if we’re?—”
“Immediately,” he cuts me off. “I want to know. Consider it an exception to my rule about how you’re to behave in public. You’ll tell me if it happens.”
“Okay,” I say, sensing his sincerity. It’s reassuring. “I promise I won’t keep it from you.”
“Good. Time to change. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving? Where? Am I being let go?—?”
“Devochka, you know better than to ask that,” he snaps, letting go of my chin. “You’re coming with me. To my home. Your home.”
A wave of dizziness rolls over me.
I’m not sure how to feel or what to say. Roman takes the tray away and gestures to the change of clothes he’s brought.
“We have a long trip ahead. Hurry and change.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes,” he says. “That is intentional, devochka. The easier to leave unseen.”
He offers no other details, but by the tight set of his jaw, I’d say some kind of trouble is involved. He’s taking me in the middle of the night to avoid others knowing I’m gone. Could it be the sovietnik? Has he decided he’ll come for me?
I ask no more questions, doing as I’m told.
The clothes Roman has brought me this time are much more conservative. A turtleneck sweater, some pants, and a jacket. I change into everything, leaving my twist outs in place to finish air drying.
There’s nothing left in the room for me to take.
“Remember to behave,” Roman says, drawing the door open. “Follow my lead.”