Chapter 5 Svetlana
SVETLANA
Iwake to the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of wind howling against the cabin walls.
For a moment, I don't know where I am. The ceiling above me is rough wood, not concrete. There's warmth instead of cold. The air doesn't smell like mold and my own filth.
I’m in a bed. I flex my fingers against the sheet under me; cotton, nothing fancy, but it feels better than anything I’ve slept in for quite some time.
My eyes feel sticky, and I rub them gently, blinking them open to see the thin light filtering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
The escape. The wreck. The storm. Kazimir.
I turn my head carefully, testing my body's response. Everything still hurts, my face especially, which feels swollen still and bruised down to the bone with the particularly sharp pain that comes the day after an injury. And some parts of me, while still sore and aching, feel a little better after an actual good night’s sleep.
I feel like, if things kept going this way, I might actually have a chance to start to heal.
Kazimir is sitting in a chair by the window.
He's watching the storm outside, his profile sharp in the gray morning light. He hasn't shaved, and there’s dark stubble on his jaw, making him look rougher, even more dangerous. His hair, which is slightly longer on top, looks as if he’s been running his fingers through it repeatedly.
He looks exhausted. Like he hasn't slept at all.
I start to push myself up to a sitting position. Pain ricochets through my body, and I immediately think better of it, staying lying down on my side instead. "You stayed up all night.” My voice still sounds rough when I speak, but more with sleep now than from the pain.
He doesn't startle. He must have heard me wake up. He glances over at me, his eyes just as exhausted. "Someone had to."
“You really think they’ll find us in this storm?” My chest clenches with anxiety. I just want to feel safe again. It’s been so long since I felt even a little bit safe.
“Probably not. There was nothing all night.” He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, avoiding meeting my gaze entirely. "But I'm not taking chances with your life."
Your life. Not our lives. As if his doesn't matter as much.
I encourage myself to sit up slowly, the blanket falling to my waist. I'm still wearing the wool shirt, and it's ridden up during the night, exposing my thighs. I see his gaze flicker down, just for a second, before he looks away.
Interesting.
“Do you want a bath?” he asks abruptly. “If you don’t want me to help clean your wounds, you need to at least bathe, so that nothing gets infected. Or to lessen the chance, at least,” he adds, his gaze sweeping over me.
My face warms, and I feel a flush of embarrassment. It’s not as if I want to be dirty, as if I chose to be kept in squalor, and his attitude irritates me. “Am I supposed to take a cold bath?” I fire back, and he raises an eyebrow.
“No,” he says simply. “I’ll heat up water. There’s a tub behind that curtain over there. Just an old clawfoot, but it’ll do. But first, breakfast.”
He stands up, a little stiffly, and goes to the woodstove.
I watch him move, noting how tired he is.
He needs to rest, but I wonder if he’ll allow himself to.
How long he could stay awake before sleep took him instead of the other way around.
He gets water, tears open a couple of packets, and pours them into the pot, then stirs it wordlessly as I sit there, feeling an odd tension in the air.
After a few minutes, he brings me a mug and a spoon with what looks like overly thick oatmeal in it.
I take it from him without saying anything, keeping my thoughts to myself.
It’s not something I would have ever eaten in my past life, but it’s food, and I am grateful for it, even if I’m not particularly enjoying the… rustic nature of all of this.
He walks to the table, still silent, and leans against it as he shovels his own oatmeal into his mouth efficiently, sets his mug down, and heads outside without a word.
I realize a few minutes later that he’s bringing in buckets of snow to melt for a bath.
“I…” I clear my throat, trying to think of a way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like a princess. “You’re melting snow for me to take a bath?”
Kazimir straightens and looks at me, his expression so flat that I have no idea what he’s thinking.
“I’m not sure how long we’re going to be stuck here,” he says finally.
“We need the other water for drinking and cooking. Can’t use it for a bath.
We can melt snow to drink and boil it if we have to, but it’s not the best idea. ”
Oh. That makes sense. I nod, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. “I was just… curious.”
He makes a noncommittal grunt and goes back to what he was doing before.
Despite everything I’ve been through in the past months, I feel sheltered and silly, watching him. I don’t know anything about surviving like this, and I suddenly feel woefully unprepared for, well… everything.
But it’s not my fault. None of this is. I grew up in fucking Boston. I’m not supposed to know that we shouldn’t melt snow to drink unless we absolutely have to.
I watch him, feeling irritated and uncomfortable, but despite how put out I am, I’m finding it hard to look away.
It’s clear he’s done this before—survived in places like this, taken care of himself in harsh conditions. The way he moves, his competence, even his ruggedness, is oddly compelling.
Kazimir has always been handsome. I noticed that the first time I met him was at the engagement party.
Ilya was beautiful in a refined way—strong, elegant features, a lean body wrapped in expensive suits, with a demeanor that always oozed both danger and money.
But Kazimir was always different. Rougher. More dangerous.
I remember watching him that night, while I danced with Ilya, seeing the way he watched the room, cataloging everyone there for possible threats. He practically hummed with danger. He looked as if he’d feel hot to the touch. As if putting a hand on him might mean you’d get bitten.
I thought I’d caught him looking at me that night… and other nights, too, the longer I was with Ilya. I always told myself I was imagining it.
But I wasn’t. I can see it now, in the way he won't quite meet my eyes, the tension in his shoulders when he's near me, that hungry look he can't quite hide.
Kazimir Orlov wants me.
And I hate him for abandoning me in that warehouse, for walking away when Ilya told him to, and leaving me to the fate that eventually found me. But I'm also smart enough to recognize an opportunity when I see one.
If he wants me, I can use that. I can make sure he doesn't abandon me again. I can string him along, keep him invested in keeping me alive, and getting me to safety.
I don't have to actually give him anything. I just have to make him think I might.
It's manipulative. From a certain point of view, some might even say it’s cruel, depending on whether his desire has emotion behind it or is purely lustful.
But after what I've been through, after what men have taken from me, I don't particularly care about being kind.
Kazimir made his choices. Now he can live with the consequences.
One of those consequences is that I’ll never trust him again. But I can use him.
"Water's almost ready," he says, not looking at me. "There's soap in the cabinet. Towels too, but they’re pretty rough."
The ‘curtain’ is just a blanket hung over a rope strung between two nails in the wall, but it’s enough to give me some privacy. The tub looks like it’s from another century, and Kazimir has only managed to fill it up a few inches, but it’ll do for me to get clean.
"Thank you," I say softly, and I let just a hint of warmth into my voice. Just enough.
His jaw tightens. "It's nothing."
I smile at him, and he looks away. When the water is hot, he pours it into the basin, mixing it with cold water from another bucket until it's the right temperature. He tests it with his hand and then looks up at me.
"Should be good," he says. "I'll... I'll be over here. Take your time. If you need help getting to the tub, let me know."
Without another word, he retreats to the far side of the cabin, deliberately turning his back. Giving me privacy.
I stand slowly, testing my limbs. They hurt, but I can walk, at least. I make my way to the corner, behind the blanket screen, acutely aware of Kazimir’s presence in the small cabin, even behind the curtain.
There’s faint steam curling off of the water, and I stare at it like it’s an oasis on a hot day.
The last time I had a hot bath, I’d been in a cell for…
I don’t remember how long. I pissed Pyotr off.
I was brought back up to the main floor and scrubbed clean by another one of the girls who refused to speak to me, clearly because she’d been ordered not to.
She washed every inch of me, rubbed honey-scented oil into my skin, and dressed me in a silk and lace teddy before taking me right back to Pyotr, who looked at me like a cat who trapped a bird it wanted to torture to death.
By the time he was finished with me that night, the nightgown was stained with blood.
I look around, seeing what there is for me to clean myself with. There's a bar of plain soap, a washcloth, and a towel folded neatly on a stool. Nothing fancy, but enough to get the grime off.
My fingers go to the buttons of the shirt, and I hesitate. On the other side of that thin blanket, Kazimir is out there. Close enough to hear everything. Close enough that if the blanket fell, he would see me.
The thought sends a strange flutter through my stomach.
A feeling like anticipation, which feels strange.
It’s been a long time since I’ve anticipated anything in a way that feels pleasant.
There’s a pleasure to the idea of luring Kazimir, taking some of my power back to make sure I’m protected instead of hurt.