Chapter 14
LIESL
I’m awoken by the sunlight filtering through my curtains in the morning, lying atop the duvet. I fell asleep last night without even getting out of my clothes or under the covers.
I sit up, rubbing at my face. The girl with my breakfast tray came by already and I didn’t wake up—I see it sitting on the desk, steam rising in a slow curl from the cup holding my coffee. And there’s a note on the tray.
I get up slowly, feeling soreness in all my muscles from being thrown around yesterday hiding from the bullets. There's dried blood on my hands still, and the sight of it makes my stomach turn over. I scrub at it with my thumb, but I need a shower.
Suddenly, that feels like the most important thing I could possibly do. I ignore my breakfast, the coffee, the note, everything, and head toward the bathroom, stripping off my dirty clothes as I go.
I turn the water on as hot as I can stand, then scrub until the water runs clear and there’s no trace of yesterday's violence left on my body. My skin feels raw by the time I’m done, and I can still feel the weight of what happened yesterday, even if the blood is all gone.
The sound of gunfire echoing, the look on my father’s face and my realization of how little it seems I actually mean to him.
I keep trying to tell myself that he was willing to kill to get me back, but deep down, I don’t think this was really about getting me back at all.
A few minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my hair sticking to my spine. I look at the note on the breakfast tray and realize it’s from Andrei. The handwriting is sharp and angular, almost angry.
Had to leave. Stay inside. Don't do anything stupid.
No signature or reassurance. Just orders, delivered in the same clipped tone he uses with his men.
I crumple the note in my fist and throw it in the trash, watching it land among the discarded tissues. Then I stand there, dripping onto the expensive hardwood floor, trying to ignore the twist in my chest over how curt that note was.
You're being ridiculous, I tell myself. He doesn't owe you a goodbye. You're not his girlfriend. You're his captive.
Whatever else has happened between us, that’s all I am. And it’s important that I remember that.
I sit down, and try to eat my breakfast.
—
The mansion feels different without him here. Emptier and quieter, like a house holding its breath. I get dressed after breakfast, and try the knob to my door. It’s been left unlocked, and I wonder if this is a test, to see if I’ll try to escape when he’s not here
I expect someone to stop me when I leave my room.
A guard posted outside my door, maybe, or one of Andrei's men watching from the hallway.
But there's no one. The corridor is empty, silent except for the sound of my footsteps on the hardwood floor and the distant hum of voices somewhere deeper in the mansion.
Slowly, I test the boundaries of whatever freedom I’ve been allowed for a little while, exploring the mansion more thoroughly.
The house feels cold and impersonal, old, with heavy, dark colors throughout and rich furnishings, antiques and art decorating the space.
It feels more like a museum than a home, and I walk through room after room, curling my toes into soft rugs and running my hands over the furniture.
I feel like I’m walking through a display.
No one stops me. It seems like Andrei’s men have been instructed to leave me alone, probably as long as I don’t try to leave the property. The few men I pass nod briefly and continue on their way, like my presence here is normal. Like I'm not a captive at all, but a guest.
I don’t think I could leave the estate entirely. I’m sure Andrei has guards in place for that. But I could try to make a phone call.
Not to my father. I don’t think that’s going to help any longer. I’m not sure if anyone can help, really. But I need to talk to someone who isn’t Andrei. Right now, as isolated as I am, I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I pivot and head toward the library, and the phone that I know is in there, unless Andrei removed it.
The room looks the same as it did the night Andrei kissed me here, the night he told me about my father's betrayal.
The shelves are still lined with books I haven't read, leather-bound volumes in Russian and English and languages I don't recognize.
The chairs are still positioned by the window, angled to catch the afternoon light.
The air still smells faintly of old paper and the leftover smell of burnt wood from the fire.
I run my fingers along the spines of the books, not really seeing the titles, as I walk toward the phone. I pause, looking at it, and I feel my pulse speed up.
Who do I call? I have friends, but who would understand? Who is the right person to talk to about what’s happening to me?
Is this part of the test? To see if I’ll call someone for help? I bite my lip, and take a step back.
This all feels strange. I don’t know what to do, like I’m rattling around in this house, alone and scared and unsure of what exactly happens now. The last thing Andrei said to me was that he should kill me, that it would make everything easier.
What if he’s looking for a reason?
I back up, out of the library, and go back to my room.
—
Strangely, now that I can leave my room without anyone bothering me, even Andrei, I realize that I feel safer in my room than out of it. At some point, these four walls have come to feel like the only sanctuary I have.
Still, the next day, when Andrei still hasn’t come back, I force myself to explore the house again, to get some exercise if nothing else.
I explore rooms I've never been allowed to enter before, pushing open doors and half-expecting someone to stop me, to tell me I'm overstepping, to remind me of my place.
I walk through a formal dining room with a table that seats twenty, a gym with weights racked in perfect order and a punching bag hanging in the corner with splits in the leather that suggest frequent, violent use, a sunroom filled with plants that someone must be tending.
The soil is damp and the leaves are green and healthy, but I never see who.
When I go back upstairs, I hesitate… and then I walk into Andrei’s room.
It’s immaculate, which doesn’t tell me much, since this house has staff. But there’s a few things I see, as I walk around, feeling nervous and a little guilty for snooping. I tell myself it’s not like I haven’t been in here before—but I’ve never been in here without him.
I see a Russian novel on the nightstand, bookmarked halfway through. Two pairs of cufflinks in a dish next to it. I pick one of them up, and see it’s made of what looks like antiqued silver, with a spade engraved into the top of it.
For a moment, I have a weird urge to take it with me. To keep it as… what? A memento of this, once I’m back home? A reminder that what happened to me here was actually real?
Something to remember him by?
I drop the cufflink back into the dish with a clink, and leave the room quickly, my heart pounding in my chest.
—
That night, I ignore my dinner tray and slip into the kitchen after the usual dinnertime instead, wondering if anyone will be there.
Whoever cooks in this house is gone, the kitchen spotless, and I feel a small thrill of rebellion at the idea of taking over the kitchen for myself for a little while.
I rifle through the cupboards and find pasta, olive oil, seasonings, and parmesan in the fridge.
I know how to cook—I cook for myself often enough—and I wish I had a phone or some way to listen to music while I make myself dinner here.
Instead, I hum under my breath, organizing ingredients before I find a bottle of white wine in the fridge as well, and pour myself a glass.
I wonder what Andrei would think, what he’d say, if he came home right now to this.
The thought makes me smile for the first time in days, imagining the shock on his face.
The idea of totally catching him off guard.
Making him realize that that however much he thinks he has an idea of who I am, he really doesn’t.
Cooking makes the time go by a little faster, and before long, I have a dish of cacio e pepe and a fresh glass of wine. I go and sit in the breakfast nook by the window, and eat my pasta and sip the wine, trying not to think about anything other than the delicious food and a few moments of peace.
I'm used to silence. I lived alone in my apartment in the city and spent plenty of evenings by myself with a book or a glass of wine, enjoying the solitude after long days of work or social obligations or charity events. And after the chaos of the last few days, it feels good to be alone and quiet of my own volition, instead of because I’ve been isolated in a room.
I wash my dishes and put them away, and wipe down the counter so there’s no evidence left of my being here. And then, as I toss the paper towels away, I think again of what Andrei’s reaction might be if he came back now to find me cooking in his kitchen, cleaning up after myself, like I…
Like I live here.
And a part of me wishes he would actually walk through the door.
The realization hits me like a sharp slap—I miss him. I actually fucking miss him. Either I’ve become desperate for company… or something about him has gotten under my skin, into my head, and now…
It’s just the sex, I tell myself sternly as I leave the kitchen.
It’s just because the way I feel when he touches me, the things he says when he’s inside me, the way he makes me come…
all of it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before or knew sex could be.
That’s what’s gotten into my head, the fact that the sex is better than anything I ever even fantasized about.
It’s not him. It’s just his incredible dick and how well he knows how to use it. I’ve been distracted by it, but that’s all.