Chapter 6 - Raya #2
I’ve stopped trying to leave. Not because I’m suddenly accepting of this ridiculous situation—I absolutely am not—but confrontation has gotten me precisely nowhere, and I learned long ago that to keep doing the same thing and expect a different result is madness.
So I’ve changed tactics. I watch instead, paying attention to the house and to him, because understanding something is more useful than fighting it blind.
‘Knowing your enemy,’ my brothers would call it, although Yakov isn’t really acting like my enemy.
Well, save the whole kidnapping thing, but even that was done to keep me safe from his father and brother.
The house itself is interesting. The cupboards are incredibly well stocked.
The first-aid kit is basically a whole cupboard in the bathroom; I have to admit, it looks pretty similar to what we have at home.
Same kind of business risks, I guess. There are two sets of car keys on separate hooks by the door.
None of this screams ‘on the fly’: this place has been sat here, ready and waiting.
I don’t know how long for, and I haven’t asked. I’m not interested, much.
He’s up before me in the morning. I know this because by the time I come through, the coffee is already made and there is food on the counter.
I’ve been in worse hostage situations, so I’m not complaining too much, except the way he does my eggs.
Who eats runny eggs? I finally snap about it, sliding the porcelain plate across the marble island until it clicks against his laptop case.
“Are you doing this on purpose? They’re snotty, Yakov. ”
He looks up from his screen; his eyes move to evaluate the plate, then shift to my face. “The eggs?”
“Yes, the eggs,” I say, crossing my arms, planting my boots firmly against the tile.
“The whites are practically translucent. It’s like eating warm jelly.
If you’re going to play husband and captor who provides artisanal morning meals, the least you can do is leave them in the pan for another sixty seconds. ”
He takes the criticism with infuriating calm, but I see the way he’s biting his lip, like it’s costing him real effort not to laugh. “The soft yolk contains a higher concentration of nutrients, Raya. It’s optimal for recovery after stress.”
“I didn’t realize you cared so much about my stress levels,” I shoot back, my voice rising a pitch.
“I don’t want optimal nutrients; I want solid egg whites, and I’m not bending over backward to say thanks either.
If you want to kidnap a girl, force her into a sham marriage, and this is supposed to be her honeymoon, you damn well better be serving up some good stuff while I relax, keep my stress levels down, and all. ”
Yakov looks at me for one long moment, then slowly closes his notebook, leaning forward over the counter, closing the distance between us until I can smell the clean, cedar scent of his skin.
“A honeymoon,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, silky gravel that skitters straight down my spine. “Is that what we’re calling this, malysh? Because if you want the full traditional experience, I can certainly accommodate you. The kitchen table is at your disposal.”
The explicitness of the comment hits me like a physical blow. My face instantly catches fire, a furious, burning crimson rushing straight up my neck to my ears. I take a panicked half-step backward.
“You are a disgusting animal,” I spit out, turning my back on him to grab a piece of dry toast, desperately trying to mask the fact that his words made my brain melt.
“I am a provider, accommodating my wife’s feedback.” I hear the grin in his voice without even turning around to see his face. “Sixty seconds more in the pan tomorrow. Noted.”
He works a lot; he seems to be constantly fielding calls in Russian, he’s on the laptop, or scribbling away in a notebook he closes when I come into the room.
The Russian I can follow better than I let on; it was always in the background growing up, and while I wouldn’t call myself fluent, I catch enough to know he’s running multiple things at once, and not reacting to a crisis.
He’s operating, and there’s a difference.
I’m running low on reading material. I’ve finished one of the paperbacks I had bought when my day turned to shit, so I’m rationing the other two.
I have a root through the small bookshelf in the sitting room, though I don’t imagine he keeps a stock of the latest romances.
There are thrillers, a dictionary, The Art of Fighting Without Fighting, which makes me laugh, because that’s your typical Bratva guy’s go-to, and a few things I’d never choose.
Tucked at the end of the bottom shelf, I find a battered Penguin classic with a cracked spine that’s been read more than once; it’s The Brothers Karamazov.
Now that is interesting. I pull it out and take it over to him.
“This is yours?” It’s not that I don’t believe he’s incapable of reading; he is, from what I’ve gleaned from his sister and by being in his company, incredibly intelligent, annoying still, but intelligent. It’s the content I find interesting.
He glances up. “Yes.”
“A book about a monstrous father and the sons he ruins.”
“I find it comforting.”
I wait a moment for the punchline, or for him to grin, letting me in on the joke, but he doesn’t. “Now there are two words I don’t think have ever been put together in a sentence: Dostoevsky and comforting.” I raise my eyebrow at him, daring him to continue.
“Dostoevsky thought suffering produced moral clarity. I’ve found that to be broadly accurate.”
I look at him for a moment. He looks back, perfectly unbothered.
“That’s really depressing if you think about it,” I say, taking the book to the sofa.
I don’t say anything else about it, because there isn’t anything to say that wouldn’t require me to acknowledge that Yakov Mykros has clearly suffered at the hands of his father, terribly so, if he finds this book comforting.