Chapter 15
Anya
I wake once again to find the bed empty and cold beside me.
And once again, with the uncomfortable feeling that I don't want it to be this way.
Yesterday I wanted to kiss him when I touched his face, but I didn't. I still don't know if it's the right move.
I've been here less than a month and I know very little about him, about this house, about these people.
Maksim's world—or rather, the Man in the Mask's world—is so foreign to me that I know I have to be cautious.
I don't let myself keep spiraling through doubts and questions. I get out of bed ready to start the day. On my way to the bathroom, I check my email as I always do, even though I've long since lost all hope—until I stop in my tracks.
A reply.
Dear Miss Voronova,
Your message was a very welcome surprise. We're familiar with your work, and your interest in Dreaming on Pointe is, for us, a source of genuine joy.
We would like to invite you for tea at our headquarters next Wednesday, so you can see the space, meet the girls, and learn what we do here.
It would be our pleasure to have you.
Sincerely,
Vanya Gurenova
Director — Dreaming on Pointe Project
I read and reread until I've memorized every word.
Warmth floods my chest after so many years of numbness. It's been so long since I've felt anything like this that it takes me a few seconds to recognize it for what it is: joy. Joy, anxiety, and hope. The feeling of finally having a purpose again.
I head down the stairs with far more energy than usual, wanting to do something I rarely do: share my excitement.
I find the kitchen empty and quieter than it's ever been. On the counter, a note from Olga.
Went shopping. Back at eleven.
I deflate a little when I realize the austere, scowling housekeeper isn't here to hear my news.
Despite her stern expression, Olga has become one of my favorite people here.
Not just because she's the only constant in my daily life on this enormous property full of armed men, but because… I don't know.
I think it's because she's present.
I grab a green apple from the fruit bowl, take a bite, and stand there in the middle of the empty kitchen with the strange feeling that I could go anywhere in this enormous house without anyone watching me. It's a small, ridiculous freedom. But it's mine.
I decide to explore.
Inside, I know almost everything, including the wing opposite my new dance studio. The second floor, west corridor—I believe that's where Vladimir lives. Knyaz' roams freely there, and once I wandered until I came across Maksim and Yuri in an office full of monitors, where I believe Yuri works.
There's nothing left inside for me to see, so I decide to go outside.
The back patio I usually see from the dance studio window, the garden Olga tends with the same energy she devotes to her cooking, the expanse of grass that ends at the edge of the woods I've been told never to approach.
I'm not going to do anything reckless. I just want some air.
The cold of St. Petersburg hits my face all at once, like a warning to reconsider.
I take a deep breath and keep going anyway.
The garden is covered by a thin layer of snow that falls fresh every morning and melts by early afternoon. I walk along the stone path that cuts the yard in half, the snow crunching beneath my shoes.
It's beautiful here. I'd never stopped to notice.
Vysotsk had winter too, of course. The same Russian cold and the same snow. But there I had my parents' house, the failing ballet school, and the people who looked at me with pity because they knew I'd lost my promising career forever. Everything was cold there, even in summer.
Here it's just cold and winter, and yet it's warmer and cozier than that godforsaken place.
I draw in a sharp breath, feeling the cold burn my lungs, and start walking aimlessly again. When I round the hedge of perfectly pruned bushes that divides the garden from the open space at the edge of the woods, the sight of him hits me like lightning, stopping me in my tracks.
Maksim is there, his back to me.
Shirtless.
The cold of St. Petersburg doesn't seem to exist for him. He's facing a thick wooden beam suspended between two trees, his wrists wrapped in black elastic bandages, pulling himself up and down in a steady rhythm.
His back is a disturbing work of art.
The double-headed eagle tattoo covers almost his entire back, wings spread from shoulder to shoulder, so detailed it seems to move when his muscles contract with each pull-up on the improvised bar.
Along with it, there are several other marks scattered across his back—smaller scars and another tattoo on his ribs that I can't make out.
I should go back inside, not stand here trying to decipher the map of my husband's body, but my feet won't move.
I stand at the edge of the bushes, watching him train, unable to look away. I think about fleeing when Maksim releases the bar, plants his feet on the ground where the thin snow has nearly melted away, and takes a deep breath. The vapor from his breath rises, condensing in the cold air.
Instead of turning to look around, he simply pitches his body forward, as if he's about to pass out. But of course a man like Maksim Nikiforov wouldn't faint after a set of pull-ups. His bandaged hands press flat against the frozen ground as he holds a perfect plank position to do push-ups.
I watch him go up and down countless times until I convince myself that my little voyeurism session has crossed a line. The second I manage to will my feet to move, I hear a noise coming from the edge of the woods. Something big is approaching.
Maksim doesn't move, just keeps doing his push-ups without missing a beat, and it infuriates me. If I can hear the noise from here, he must be hearing it too. What's wrong with this guy?
The sound grows louder, the rustling of leaves now accompanied by grunts and snorts. Something big is moving close to Maksim, emerging from the tree line without any attempt at stealth.
My God.
A bear.
A massive adult grizzly. It approaches like it owns the place, utterly unafraid of anyone who might be watching. My brain short-circuits when I notice how close it is to Maksim.
My legs move on their own. Fast.
“Hey!!”
I shout as I run toward them with no plan in mind. Along the way, I spot a rock on the ground the size of a tennis ball. I bend down to grab it without breaking stride and hurl it with everything I've got.
I miss the bear, but my husband notices my presence and springs to his feet. He looks in my direction with a strange expression—something like amusement.
“Maksim, get out of there!”
My run loses momentum, my bad knee protesting, but the bear isn't fazed by my failed attempt to scare it. The animal rises on its hind legs, towering over seven feet tall, and keeps advancing, its snout pointed at Maksim.
With my heart racing, I misstep and stumble. I don't fall, but I freeze in place at the exact moment Maksim opens his arms and plants himself in front of that massive beast. I look around, think about screaming for help, begging someone to save Maksim from that wild animal, until I realize…
Are they hugging?
No. It can't be.
I look more closely. Maksim has his legs spread wide, feet firmly planted in the ground, bracing against over a ton of bear. Paws the size of dinner plates are splayed across Maksim's back, the long claws leaving red welts on his skin.
The bear grunts and growls, making the whole scene terrifying, until Maksim speaks through gritted teeth.
“Behave yourself, we have company.”
My jaw drops. My expression must be priceless.
Are they playing?
The bear stops, as if respecting the command. They separate slightly, both turning their heads in my direction at the same time—Maksim looking amused and surprised at once, and the bear with…
It drops its massive body to the ground, sitting with hind legs splayed and one front paw rubbing its snout. Then it turns its gaze to me and yawns.
Boredom?
I bored an adult grizzly?
“Svetlana.” Maksim's voice comes out low, and there's something in it I've never heard before. “Meet Ivan.”
I look at the bear.
I look at my husband.
I look at the bear again.
“You have a bear.”
It's not a question.
“I do.”
“You have a real bear.”
Another statement.
“That was already established in the previous sentence.”
“Maksim.” My voice comes out in a tone I don't recognize as my own, somewhere between hysterical and incredulous. “This is Ivan? Ivan, who doesn't even scare the cat?”
Maksim narrows his eyes, trying to follow my logic. His lips are pressed together and I think he might be getting irritated with my silliness, but then I realize he's just trying to hold back a smile.
Lips pressed together in the middle, but the corners curving slightly upward, especially on the side where the scar ends. He's drop-dead gorgeous.
Focus, Anya!
“I asked Olga who Ivan was days ago! She just told me to ask my husband.”
“She was wise, as always.”
“You. Have. A. Bear.”
“You've already said that three times, Solnyshko.”
“I'm processing.”
Just like that damn nickname he dropped on the night of the almost, leaving me dazed.
Maksim grabs the t-shirt folded on a nearby rock and pulls it on with a calm only possible in someone who's lived with an adult bear in their backyard for years.
Apparently this is completely reasonable for people like him.
Then he walks toward me with slow but deliberate steps, passing Ivan without even a glance, like someone stepping around a dog in the way.
“He came to me when he was still a cub,” he says as he approaches. “I was fourteen.”
“What do you mean he came to you?”
“A tragedy brought us together.”
Instead of shrugging it off like it's nothing, Maksim speaks quietly, his words measured, brow furrowed and eyes distant. He's caught in a bad memory—I can tell. So I don't press further. That, and the bear won't stop staring at me.