Chapter 18 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
I’m risking everything.
I knew that from the moment I started this. And it lingers in my mind the next morning as I knock on her door, waiting for her to acknowledge I’m there. When she says nothing from the other side, I speak anyway.
"We need to talk.”
There’s another long silence, and then I finally hear her voice. “About what, Kazimir? What else is there to talk about?”
I let out a sigh. “You know what we need to discuss. You’re staying here, so we need to talk about how this goes.”
She snatches the door open after making me wait a few more minutes. “Why? Because you’re worried I’ll try to escape? Or Ilya will find out I’m here?”
“You’re not escaping. My friend Artem will make sure of that.”
“Is that the guy who was here last night while you were out grocery shopping?”
“It is.” I lean against the doorjamb. “He’s loyal to me. He’ll make sure you’re safe when I can’t be here, and he’ll make sure you stay safe.”
“So I have a guard, too. Are you still sure I’m not a prisoner?”
I can feel the pressure of exhaustion at the back of my head, threatening a headache.
“If Ilya finds you here, he’ll kill me for lying to him, most likely.
If he were to show up, you need to make yourself scarce.
Hide somewhere. Make sure not to leave things out that might give it away.
He’s never come to my apartment before, but—”
If he has some reason to suspect me, I start to say—and don’t. I don’t want her to be afraid, just aware of what’s going on.
“He’d kill you for lying to him. Do you hear yourself?” She shakes her head. “And you want me to stay with you? In this world? Even if the baby is yours—”
“Stop saying that.” My jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter to me. From here on out, you and the baby are mine. End of story.”
She goes quiet for a moment. “How long?” she asks finally. "How long do I have to stay hidden? Weeks? Months?" Her hand moves to her stomach, just for a second. "Years?"
I don’t have an answer for that, and I think she knows it.
There’s no statute of limitations on how pissed Ilya will be if he finds out what really happened in Russia—and that I’ve not only lied to him about all of it, but fucked his ex-fiancée, kept her in my apartment without telling him, threatened her father and thus inadvertently pulled him back into Svetlana’s problems, and possibly gotten her pregnant.
I’ll be lucky if he kills me without castrating me first.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “Until I can figure out where we go from here. And in order to do that, Svetlana, I need to not be preoccupied every fucking minute with arguing with you. Especially not the same argument over and over.”
She stares at me, and I can see her calculating. "And if I need things? If I want to go somewhere, do something?"
"Tell me. I'll get it for you."
"Anything?"
The word hangs between us. It’s a test, and we both know it.
"Anything," I confirm, and I mean it. Whatever she wants, whatever she needs, I’ll find a way to get it for her.
This is my penance. I’ll grovel until I’ve proven that I was wrong. Until she believes that one mistake doesn’t mean I should be punished forever, when all I want is to make it right.
A slow, dangerous smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. "We'll see about that."
Then she shuts the door in my face.
She doesn’t ask me for anything right away.
She doesn’t come out of her room except to get some food and take it back into the guest room.
I bring her toiletries and new clothes, and she accepts them without a word.
I can hear the television playing in her room, hear her showering, hear her moving around the apartment whenever I’m in a different room, but she avoids me as much as she possibly can.
For the first couple of days, I try to give her some space. I can understand that this is difficult and that she needs to acclimate. And I need to keep Ilya from realizing that anything has changed.
I keep the house stocked with the best groceries I can buy, things I wouldn’t normally bother buying for myself, and precook meals I think Svetlana might eat when I’m not busy working on something for Ilya.
I bring fresh bread from the Russian bakery, the best cuts of meat, produce that’s in season.
I make her soups, stews, pasta, anything I can think of that might whet her appetite.
She eats sparingly, which I have a feeling has more to do with stress and the pregnancy than her trying to get back at me for what I’ve done. One afternoon, a few days later, I catch her staring into the refrigerator, her mouth pursed as if she’s looking for something she can’t find.
“Do you need something?”
She jumps, her hand on her chest as she turns to look at me.
Her expression is hard, like it always is when she sees me, but I don’t care.
Or rather… I do care, but the proof that this is worth it is right in front of me.
Her face has filled out, and there’s more color in her cheeks.
She looks more like the Svetlana I remember, from the days before everything fell apart.
“It’s nothing.” Her voice is clipped as she shuts the refrigerator.
"Svetlana." I can hear the irritation in mine. “I told you, if you need something—”
"I said it's fine."
"Are you feeling sick?" Worry strikes a chord in my chest. “If I need to call a doctor…”
"I'm fine.” Her voice sharpens, and I let out a sharp breath.
“Alright.” I shrug. “But I’ll remind you again, if you need anything, I’ll find it for you. I don’t care what it is.”
“And if I want someone’s head on a platter?” She smiles thinly, and my mouth twitches.
“I’ll start sharpening my knives.”
“What if it’s yours?” Her smile is as fine and sharp as a blade, and I can feel it between my shoulders as I walk away, back into my own room.
Later that evening, I hear a light, firm rap on the door.
I try not to think about Svetlana coming into my bedroom as I get up to open it.
That’s the last thing that needs to be on my mind right now.
But it’s difficult when I open the door and see her standing there, wearing a pair of loose dark blue lounge pants and a camisole with a cardigan over it.
The sweater shifts slightly, and I swear I can see the outline of her nipple through the fabric.
My cock twitches, and I suck in a breath through my teeth.
“I need something,” she says without preamble. “You said anything, right?”
I tense. I can only imagine what this is going to be, but I’m determined to follow through on my promise. I want her to trust me, to understand that whatever’s happened in the past, I’m trying to make it right now. “What is it?”
“I want strawberries.”
I blink at her. “Strawberries?”
She nods, her chin tipped up like she’s offering me a challenge.
“It’s after ten p.m.”
Svetlana shrugs. “That’s not my problem, is it? And I want the good ones, not those flavorless ones from the regular supermarket. And whipped cream. Real whipped cream, not the canned shit." She crosses her arms. "You said anything."
It’s a test. I can see it in her eyes. She’s waiting for me to tell her that she’s being ridiculous, difficult, that I’ll get them for her tomorrow to satiate her craving. She’s purposely seeing if I’ll follow through on my word.
I shrug. “Okay.”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly before her face quickly shutters back into a defensive mask. “Okay?”
“I’ll get them. Just let me get my shoes on and call Artem to come watch the apartment.”
She blinks at me. She clearly expected me to argue. “Oh, and dark chocolate,” she adds. “The expensive kind.”
I nod without hesitation. “Any specific brand?”
Svetlana stares at me for a moment. “No,” she says finally. “Just make sure it’s good.”
I nod and head for the door, but her voice stops me.
"Kazimir."
I turn back.
"They have to be good strawberries," she says. "Not just... whatever you find. They have to be ripe and sweet and perfect."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her eyes narrow. "Because if you come back with garbage, I'll know you don't actually mean it."
"I mean it," I smirk at her, reaching for my leather jacket. "I'll get you the best fucking strawberries in Boston."
Her mouth twitches, and for the briefest moment, I think she’s actually going to smile at me. "We'll see."
It’s midnight before I’m successful. I went to three different stores, disabling the alarms and slipping into the dark produce sections feeling like the world’s most ridiculous thief, only to come up empty-handed each time.
The strawberries looked like shit. It’s not until I find a small specialty store that’s closing up that I hit the jackpot.
The owner is locking the door when I step out of the shadows, cap pulled low, and my jacket collar up around my chin. “Open back up.”
The man nearly jumps a foot in the air. His hands fly up. “There’s nothing in the register! I… here’s the deposit bag—”
He starts to fumble in his pocket, and I reach out, grabbing his wrist. He lets out a squeak and goes pale.
“I don’t want your money. Do you have strawberries? And good whipped cream.”
The man looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I… yes.”
“Then open back up.”
Fifteen minutes later, I have two cartons of the juiciest-looking strawberries that I’ve ever come across, a glass jar of clotted cream, and three bars of dark chocolate from Switzerland and France.
I leave a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, the man still looking at me like he’s about to piss himself, and head back out into the night.
By the time I get back to the apartment, it's nearly one in the morning. I'm half-expecting her to be asleep.
Instead, she’s sitting up in bed when I knock on the door and ease it open, surprised that it’s not locked. It feels like a very small victory. There’s a book in her hand, and she sets it down when I step inside.