5. Vera
VERA
The guest bedroom door closes behind me with a soft click, and I lean back against it. My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the wood and try to breathe.
The room is exactly as I remember it. The walls are pale blue; I always preferred that shade over the dingy colors Dmitri wanted in our master suite.
I used to hide in here sometimes when Dmitri was in one of his moods. He never came looking. This room was beneath him, too plain for his tastes.
I push off the door and walk to the window. The gardens stretch out below, dark and shadowy in the fading light. Somewhere out there is the garage where Dmitri kept his cars.
I strip off the sweater and jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. My skin feels too tight, like I need to crawl out of it. I can still feel Roman’s hands on me, his fingers digging into my hips.
No. I’m not thinking about that.
Except I am thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I grab a t-shirt from the dresser. It’s one I left here months ago, soft and worn. It smells like the lavender sachets Oksana puts in all the drawers. I pull it on and climb into bed, sitting with my back against the headboard.
The house is quiet. I can hear the distant murmur of voices from downstairs. The staff cleaning up from the wake, probably.
My phone is in my purse downstairs. I should go get it, check for messages from Dad; but the thought of running into Roman again makes my chest tight.
What was I thinking, letting him touch me like that?
My husband is barely cold and I’m already spreading my legs for his brother.
The thought makes me feel sick, but it doesn’t stop the heat that’s building low in my belly. I can still feel the ghost of Roman’s fingers, the pressure and rhythm, and the way he knew exactly what I needed before I did.
Roman made me come so hard I saw stars.
I slide down in the bed until I’m lying flat. The ceiling is blank, and I stare at it while my hand drifts beneath the covers. This is wrong. This is so deeply fucked up that I should stop, but my hand keeps moving.
My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear and I’m already wet, already aching.
I close my eyes and Roman’s face appears behind my eyelids. My breath comes faster. I bite my lip to keep quiet even though I’m alone, even though no one would hear me. Old habits.
I think about his hands on my skin. I work myself with my own fingers, feeling the tension coiling as my walls clench. I can almost hear Roman’s voice saying my name.
The orgasm builds quickly. My free hand fists in the sheets and my hips lift off the mattress. When I come, I have to press my face into the pillow to muffle the sound.
After, I lie there staring at the ceiling and hating myself.
What kind of person does this? What kind of person gets off on thoughts of the man who killed her husband?
I roll onto my side and pull the covers up to my chin. The room feels colder now, and my skin is damp with sweat. I should take a shower.
A knock at the door makes me jolt upright.
“Mrs. Volkonsky?” Oksana’s voice, muffled through the wood. “I’ve brought you some dinner.”
Shit. I scramble out of bed and grab the jeans from the floor, yanking them on. My hair is a mess and my face is probably flushed, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
“Just a second,” I call out. My voice sounds rough and I clear my throat.
I smooth down my hair as best I can and open the door. Oksana stands in the hallway holding a tray laden with covered dishes. Her eyes do a quick scan of my face, and I know she’s cataloging every detail.
“I thought you might prefer to eat up here,” she says. “Rather than in the dining room with...”
With Roman.
“Thank you. That’s thoughtful.”
She carries the tray inside and sets it on the small table by the window. When she lifts the covers, steam rises from a bowl of soup and a plate of bread and cheese. The smell makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that was just toast.
“Eat while it’s hot,” Oksana says.
I sit at the table and pick up the spoon. The soup is some kind of chicken and vegetable. I take a bite and it’s so good I could cry.
Oksana turns to face me. Her expression is unreadable, the same mask of professional courtesy she’s worn for as long as I’ve known her.
“You should know,” she says carefully, “that I think Mr. Roman is making the right choice in observing Zabota.”
I set down my spoon. “Do you?”
“I do. You’ll be safer with him than you ever were here.”
The words hit harder than they should. Oksana has worked in this house for decades. She saw everything, knew everything. She never said a word to me about Dmitri, never offered sympathy or support.
“You never told me,” I say. My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “In three years, you never once said anything.”
“What would you have had me say?” Oksana’s hands smooth down her apron, a nervous gesture I’ve never seen from her before. “That your husband was cruel? You lived with him, Mrs. Volkonsky. You knew.”
“I did know, but it would have been nice to think someone else saw it too. That I wasn’t going crazy.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she pulls out the other chair and sits across from me, which is so unexpected that I forget to keep eating.
“I saw it,” she says quietly. “I saw everything.”
My throat tightens. “Then why didn’t you?—”
“What could I have done? I’m a housekeeper, Mrs. Volkonsky. I have no power here, no influence. If I had spoken up, Dmitri would have fired me at best. At worst...” She trails off, but I understand what she’s not saying.
At worst, he would have done to her what he did to anyone else who crossed him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
She gives me a small nod and rises from the chair.
I want to say more, but she’s already upright and stepping into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her. I’m left sitting at the table with my half-eaten soup.
I’m staring at the closed door when it opens again. This time it’s Roman who fills the doorway, his frame too large for the delicate guest room.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The room feels smaller with him in it.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“I don’t want to talk.”
Something shifts in his expression. His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from my face. I’d call it gentle, if not for the steel in his eyes.
“I’m not asking you to trust me, Vera; but whether you like it or not, you’re mine.”
He leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit there for a long moment, then return my focus to the table and force myself to finish the soup. It’s thick and hearty, but each bite makes me want to be sick.
Roman called me his. I’ve gone from one man’s property to another’s.
Across the hall, I hear the sound of a door closing. It must be Roman settling into his room. I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened in the car. Does he feel the same confusion and want that’s churning in my stomach?
Probably not. He doesn’t strike me as a man who worries about anything.