Chapter 17 Svetlana #2
I push myself to my feet and look around the room.
It’s nice enough. There’s a queen-sized bed that’s neatly made with neutral-colored bedding, a nightstand and dresser, a chair, and a desk.
It doesn’t seem to be stocked with anything, as if no one really uses it.
I don’t think he planned this, and I’m not sure if that’s a relief or not. This was an impulse… bringing me here.
I move to the window and look out. We're high up—at least ten floors, maybe more. Even if I could open the window, there's no fire escape from this room, no way down. I'm trapped.
The panic starts to build in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Trapped, again, like I was in that cell, in the compound, locked in rooms so many times I lost count. I can’t do this again, I can’t…
I need to do something about the baby. I can't have it. I can't bring a child into this mess, can't raise it alone with no money and no support and no—
But what if it's Kazimir's?
What if it's not? What if it's one of theirs?
The questions spiral in my mind, each one worse than the last. I sink onto the bed, my hands pressed against my stomach. I don't know what to do.
I hear Kazimir moving around the apartment outside of my room. Eventually, as the day wears on and the afternoon starts to darken, I hear the front door open and click. I wait, but there’s no sound of him coming back in.
Did he really leave me here? Does he not think I’ll try to run as soon as I’m left alone?
I unlock the door and ease it open. The apartment seems to be empty. I move quietly, carefully, toward the front door. I’m reaching for the doorknob when I hear a voice that isn’t Kazimir’s.
"Going somewhere?"
I freeze, then turn slowly and see a man sitting in the armchair by the living room window. He's big and broad-shouldered, with a gun resting casually on his hip. I shriek, leaping backward, my back hitting the door.
"Mr. Orlov asked me to make sure you didn't leave," he says in accented English. "For your own safety, of course."
I swallow hard, then ease away from the door, my heart pounding.
"The bedroom is that way," the man says, gesturing. "I suggest you get some rest."
It’s clear I’m not leaving. I feel my stomach drop, but I don't argue. I just turn and walk back to the guest room, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. I could try to run, but I think he’d catch me. The thought of a strange man’s hands on me again is enough to keep me from trying.
I lock the door again and lean against it, my mind racing. There's a guard. He has someone watching me. I'm not just trapped—I'm a prisoner.
Again.
The panic is overwhelming now, making my chest tight and my vision blur. I can't stay here. I can't do this. I can't—
I slide down to the floor and pull my knees to my chest, trying to breathe, trying to think. But I can’t think straight. I’m starting to shake, panicking, and I can feel tears slipping down my cheeks. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I sit there for a long time until it’s dark outside. I hear the front door open and close, and I push myself to my feet, swallowing hard as I poise for… what? For Kazimir to come see me? He’s not going to hurt me—I know that—not physically at least. But this is hurting me, just in a different way.
I hear him speaking to the man in the living room, although I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. I hear the door open and close again, and then a few minutes later, a knock at my door.
"Svetlana." His voice is gentler now, careful. "I brought food."
I don't answer.
"I know you're awake. I can hear you breathing." He pauses. "You need to eat. For the baby."
The words make something twist in my chest. "Go away."
"I brought options." He sounds almost...
uncertain. "I didn't know what you could keep down or what you might want, so I got everything. I got soup, crackers, fruit, ginger ale. There’s some takeout Chinese. Um… fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, I also got some pasta…” He pauses again, as if trying to remember everything.
Despite everything, I can’t help feeling momentarily touched. He's trying. In his own fucked-up, controlling way, he is trying to take care of me.
I hate that a part of me wants to give in to it. Trust it, even. That part of me, after being hurt and abused and controlled for so long, just wants to accept this kindness and lean into the possibility that someone might just want to care for me.
I hate that some part of me wants to open the door, let him in, and accept what he's offering.
"Svetlana." His voice is softer now. "Please. Just... eat something. Anything. And then we can talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want."
"What I want is to leave."
There’s a moment of silence. "I can't let you do that."
"I know." The words taste bitter. "Because I'm your prisoner now."
"The food is in the kitchen," he says finally. "Take what you want. Leave the rest. I'll be in my office if you need anything."
I hear his footsteps retreat.
I wait until I'm sure he's gone, then unlock the door and open it a crack, peeking out toward where I can see the bar counter of the kitchen from my room.
He wasn’t lying. There are containers of soup, cartons of fruit, styrofoam takeout boxes, a bottle of ginger ale, and smells that would normally make my mouth water mingling in the air. Right now, it makes me vaguely nauseous, but I can see the effort that he put in.
He really did bring everything.
I’m hungry. Starving, actually—I’m starting to feel lightheaded. But accepting his food feels like accepting everything else. His control. His decisions about my life. His claim on the thing growing inside me.
It's just food, I tell myself. It doesn't mean anything.
But it feels like it does. He's trying to manipulate me, I think. That's all this is. Bring me food, play the concerned protector, make me think he actually gives a shit about anything other than controlling me.
My jaw tightens. Well, I'm not falling for it.
I spin on my heel and stalk back into the guest bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to think about the food out there in the kitchen. Hot soup. Mashed potatoes. Noodles.
My stomach growls, loud and insistent. I ignore it.
I can outlast him. I can refuse his food and his care and his suffocating presence until he realizes I'm not going to be the compliant little captive he wants me to be.
But my mouth waters every time I think about the food sitting in the kitchen.
The time ticks past, and I force myself to get up and go take a shower, even though Kazimir hasn’t brought toiletries yet.
I ignore the hunger for as long as I can, standing under the hot water, but eventually it becomes unbearable.
My stomach cramps, and the nausea intensifies until I'm afraid I'm going to be sick.
I need to eat something. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.
It doesn't mean I'm giving in. It doesn't mean anything except that I'm taking care of myself.
I get dressed again, unlock the door as quietly as I can, and ease it open.
I move as silently as possible, my bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. The food is still on the counter where he left it, and I start going through it with shaking hands.
There’s everything he said, plus more. Three different kinds of soup, mei fun with chicken, crackers, cheesy broccoli, ginger and peppermint tea, even prenatal vitamins, still in the pharmacy bag.
There’s basically every type of food here, weeks’ worth, all because he didn’t know what I might want or be able to keep down.
It's manipulation, I remind myself fiercely. He's trying to make you dependent on him.
But my hands are already opening one of the soup containers, and the smell that hits me makes my mouth water so intensely I almost moan.
It’s a chicken and dumpling soup with real vegetables in the broth, and I rummage around for a spoon while still holding the container in one hand, like someone might try to take it away.
I finally find one and start to eat straight from the container while standing up, too hungry to bother with anything else. It’s incredibly good, almost homemade.
I'm halfway through the container when I hear movement behind me.
"Finally decided to eat?"
I freeze, the spoon halfway to my mouth.
Kazimir's voice is rough with sleep, but there's something else in it too. Satisfaction, Smugness—like he won.
I set the spoon down carefully and turn to face him.
He’s not wearing a shirt. Just a pair of black sweatpants, his bare chest dusted with dark hair and covered in black ink that I can’t make out the patterns of in the dimly lit kitchen. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s looking at me with the faintest smirk on his lips.
"I was hungry," I say flatly. "Don't read anything into it."
"Wouldn't dream of it." But the corner of his mouth twitches, and I want to throw the soup at his face.
"You're an asshole."
"So you've mentioned." He shrugs, and I try not to notice the way the muscles in his shoulders move. "Multiple times, actually."
I grit my teeth. "Because it's true."
"Maybe." He moves further into the kitchen, and I instinctively step back. He notices, and something flickers across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration. "I'm just getting water. Relax."
"Don't tell me to relax."
"Fine. Be tense. Whatever makes you happy." He fills a glass from the tap and drinks it in one long swallow, his throat working. "You should eat more. The soup's not enough."
"I'll eat what I want, when I want."
He lets out a sharp breath. “Stop being stubborn.”
"Fuck you."
He sets the glass down with a soft click. "You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you sure spend a lot of energy talking back to me."
"What else am I supposed to do? You won't let me leave."