Chapter Thirteen
In which there is nothing like a bubble bath and a hot Russian who can cook.
Ava…
It's a penthouse. Of course.
Kir already has the door open, stepping back respectfully as Dmitri guides me in.
I would've expected some nightmare collision of chrome and black leather, but this is an older building and the kitchen and living room both have an exposed brick wall, adding warmth.
The windows are the beautiful older kind, floor to ceiling with a rounded top and heavy panes in iron fittings.
The furniture in the living room looks antique, there’s an enormous wooden armoire that looks lovingly restored and hundreds of years old, like maybe it came from some Tsar’s castle in Russia.
The couches are deep and comfortable looking, but high enough that I suspect my legs will dangle like a kindergartner's. Given Dmitri’s ridiculously long legs and a head that probably brushes the ceiling of any normal house, I can understand why he chose this furniture.
Kir and Demid’s quiet footsteps move behind us, doing something or another, but Dmitri is watching me, loosening his tie. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I'm no longer a patient,” I say, “so you don't get to ask me that anymore and I'm perfectly fine.”
Actually, that's a lie.
My head is still throbbing and the burn marks around my neck may be fading, but scars on the soul take longer, I suspect. I miss the hospital. I miss Priya. I don’t miss my old apartment, because that would mean I’m insane.
“Very well,” he says with a slight twist of his lips. “Let's get you settled and I'll make dinner.”
“You cook?” I say, “Or do you have one of those chefs who plates up the entire week and just leaves it in the fridge for you?”
Dmitri laughs, and damn him if that isn’t unbelievably attractive, just like the rest of him. A nice, deep hearty laugh from his broad chest and god, it makes his dress shirt tight against what I’m sure are spectacularly muscled pectorals.
“A combination of both,” he admits. “But tonight, I'm cooking as a proper host. No self-respecting Russian feeds his guest a frozen meal on their first night.”
“Isn't that more like, guest slash witness protection?” I say, but there's not a lot of heat behind it. Being placed in this spectacular but gilded cage isn’t my choice, but I don't doubt him about this human trafficking ring.
Not for a second do I question that they would like me dead in a ditch somewhere or possibly at the bottom of the Hudson River.
Though from everything I've heard about organized crime in this city, I'd have plenty of company.
“Okay, thank you. That would be really nice.” I take a deep breath and force myself to be Gracious Ava, versus Filled With Anxiety Ava.
The ADHD meds that Dr. Morozova prescribed for me are already helping a bit, pushing back my scattered thoughts, and letting me focus on one or two things at a time.
Like how the sunlight coming through the window brightens Dmitri's icy blue eyes and how the whole house smells nice, like something soothing and crisp, peppermint, maybe.
Dmitri leads me down a hall filled with beautiful paintings. I stop at one and cock my head. “Is that Corona Park?” I ask.
“It is,” he says.
I glance down at the signature. “A. Morozov. I'm guessing a relative?”
“My little brother Alexsey,” he says, smiling fondly. “He's extremely talented.” The brush strokes are precise and the colors vivid on the canvas. I can see the shading of the enormous Unisphere globe in the middle of the park and the reds and golds of a sunset.
“It's beautiful,” I say sincerely. There's other paintings, one that Dmitri tells me is of St. Petersburg, the Neva River in winter, dotted with ice skaters. “Is that where your family is from?”
“Originally yes,” he says. “My brothers and I were born here, but we all spent a few months a year in St. Petersburg and occasionally in Moscow to oversee family interests.”
“I see.” I want to know specifically what ‘family interests’ mean but I'm also pretty sure I would regret asking, so I don't. Thus far, Dmitri’s been almost unsettlingly honest.
“You'll stay here,” he says, opening a door.
I stifle a chuckle. The room is likely bigger than my old apartment.
Another magnificent series of windows makes the room bright and cheerful.
There is an enormous bed and an oriental carpet glittering with jewel tones of red, green and blue that spreads across the wooden floor; it looks soft enough to roll around on, like a cat in the sun.
“You should consider subletting,” I say. “You could comfortably fit a family of five in here.”
He looks vaguely horrified and I suspect Dmitri is not one who shares his space willingly. I'd overheard his mother mention something to him about safe houses, but he was firm that I'd be staying with him.
I’m eyeing a pile of garment bags lying on top of the bed. “My mother picked out some clothes for you,” Dmitri says. “I don't think we're going to be able to retrieve any of your belongings.”
That's the first time it hits me: my terrible scrapbooks from my scrapbooking phase when I was fourteen are gone. Boxes of family pictures I've never had time to sort, my old medical textbooks, letters from my grandma because she was too stubborn to use email.
My grief must show, because he says, “A lot of things can be recovered you know, like photos.”
“I know,” I say. “I'm alive. I'm safe. And if you can end those fuckers who did this to me - and God knows who else - losing everything else will be worth it.”
“Why don’t you take a shower and get settled? I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” I like Dmitri’s smile, kind without being pitying.
In the bathroom, I find a beautiful walk-in shower bristling with copper appliances, but I head straight for the elegant clawfoot tub.
It's situated in front of a window and we're high enough up that I know no one can witness me tearing off my clothes and getting into the water with a satisfied groan.
I haven't had a proper bath since I left home back in Colorado. Any apartment I could afford in New York would never have room for a tub. There are even elegant little jars of different potions and I pour in some lavender, watching the purple oil swirl through the water.
“Oh my God,” I groan. “I'm never getting out.”
I might have been dozing a little because when there's a knock on the bathroom door, I shriek, sitting up and sending water splashing over the side of the tub.
“Just making sure you're not drowning.” Dmitri's voice is clearly amused.
Did he hear me sounding like I was having a tub orgasm? “What are you doing in my bedroom?” I shout, offense being the best defense, of course.
“The bedroom door was open,” he says, still clearly amused. “I could hear the water running. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” I call back. “You’re a wonderful host.”
I stay in the tub until my fingers are so pruned that they look like an octogenarian’s and I climb out, going through the outfits on the bed. When he said ‘a few,’ I figured that Dr. Morozova had kindly given me a couple of pairs of leggings and a sweatshirt.
Oh, no.
These are full outfits with shoes and accessories and underwear to match and this is ridiculous because there's like twenty garment bags here.
“These Russians know how to go overboard,” I murmur, settling on a light blue sundress, and silky underwear made of something soft and rare, like unicorn skin.
Blow drying my hair, I avoid looking at the red marks on my neck.
I've treated scars like this before on burn patients in the hospital.
A lot of recovery depends on how quickly they were treated.
Some of these are from my first night in that hell pit, but they still look better than most I've seen on patients in follow-up visits, so I have hope.
The rest of me is still littered with cuts and bruises. The bruises are fading from blooms of vicious purple and gray to more of a sickly yellow. Still, the ones on my arms make me flinch and I find a cardigan to pull on over the sundress.
Lovely smells are coming from the kitchen, sizzling beef, the creamy smoothness of some kind of sauce, and the succulent sweetness of red wine.
Dmitri has abandoned his suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up on his white shirt.
I can see tattoos snaking down his forearms. There's one of a dragon coiled around his arm like a caress, the scales sparking silver and red.
Another is a blue line made up of tiny marks, flowing along his forearm like music.
“Look at you, man of many talents,” I say, coming up to the enormous granite counter. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” he says, “pour me a glass of wine.”
“Oh, have we been letting this fancy wine breathe?” I tease, holding the bottle up. “Since most of my wine comes from a box, this is new and exciting.” The label is beautiful and I raise a brow. “The script at the bottom, Morozov Vineyards? Is there anything you people don't own?”
He smiles wolfishly, another hint of those sharp, white canines. “Not really, no.”
The beef stroganoff is sinfully delicious, tangy and a bit smoky. The mushrooms and beef are tender and the noodles taste like they’re homemade. “You might have missed your calling,” I say, clearing my plate with an unseemly haste. “This is incredible.”
I’m embarrassed to note that his plate is still half full while I’ve been gobbling like a farm animal, but not mortified enough to refuse a second helping.
“My mother was insistent that her sons learn to cook at least a couple of decent dishes,” he says.
We’re sitting in the kitchen instead of his chilly dining room, and the antique pendant fixture surrounds us in a soothing circle of light.
“Along with sewing on a button, learning where the dishwasher might be located.
" He grins. “Though I’m not sure Roman ever figured that one out.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “There are six kids in my family. We all learned that it was either cook or starve to death.”
He leans back, absently swirling the wine in his glass. “It sounds chaotic but good, someone always having your back?”
“You’d be surprised,” I say dryly. “Fewer resources meant every man for himself. My sister Tamara? She could snatch the food off your fork with the speed of a striking cobra.”
He does that sexy hearty laughing thing again and my inner thighs clench.
Down, girl. He’s not for you.
We talk for a while, moving to the couch in front of the fireplace. A proper, wood-burning one with a substantial stone mantel. He watches me eyeing it longingly and says, “I could turn up the air conditioner and make you a fire.”
“You’re too good to me,” I laugh. “That would move me into entitled princess territory, so I’ll pass. It looks like you use it, though. That makes me happy.”
“In our hunting lodge near Lake Ladoga,” he says, “there’s fifteen fireplaces. It was built during the reign of Tsar Alexander, around 1780.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Well, damn.”
“The one in the great room is magnificent.” Dmitri smiles, but it’s more of a dark curl of his lips. “You could roast an entire ox in it. The woods surrounding the lodge are particularly dark, the trees grow high there. We’d hunt for hours at a time.”
The way he says ‘hunt’ makes me question if he means rabbits or something much bigger, so I let that comment pass by. There’s Charming Dmitri, Caring Dmitri, and now I’m seeing Dark and Scary as Hell Dmitri. And damn my lady garden, she’s finding him hotter than ever.