45. Something New
SOMETHING NEW
Isleep. I’m not sure how, with the largest decision of my life looming over me, but I do. I don’t hear Lev approach, much less have the awareness to reach for the gun he gave me in case it was someone else beside the bed.
I blink up at him, slowly registering the warmth of his hand still resting on my shoulder from shaking me conscious.
Exhaustion obviously played a role.
But it was mostly Lev. This room smells like him, and so do the sheets. It didn’t matter he wasn’t physically in bed beside me last night; his proximity surrounded me. That’s why I slept.
And it’s why I’ll marry him. Accepting the offer might be the most selfish thing I’ll ever do.
I feel weak, requiring a man’s protection.
I feel guilty, accepting his protection.
I need help; I want his. I’ve always wanted him, and I realized the desire wouldn’t be temporary about a decade ago.
Just like I knew I would never have him.
“Time to go,” Lev says, the welcome warmth of his palm falling away.
I nod, although I’m not sure he can tell in the dark. My pupils are slowly adjusting to the limited light, but all I can make out are vague shapes. It must be early—really early—because no sunshine is visible between the cracks in the blinds.
I slide out of bed, and Lev tosses something on the comforter.
“Put that on.”
I oblige, yanking his shirt over my head and pulling on the new piece of fabric. He turns his head, giving me some semblance of privacy even though he can’t possibly be able to see much. Even though he’s seen me naked many times before.
It spears some doubt in the center of my chest. He didn’t try to sleep with me last night—didn’t even touch me. He left me alone in this bed for hours.
Maybe he has another woman somewhere in this huge house. It’s not like I warned him I was coming in advance. This isn’t a traditional relationship by any definition.
“Ready,” I say, smoothing the front of my new outfit and grabbing the gun off the table.
“Hide that,” Lev instructs, striding toward the door.
“Where?” I hiss, hurrying after him.
The dress’s material is stiff and itchy. Under it, I’m wearing nothing. My clothes from yesterday are lying in a heap in his bathroom. They’re all I have with me.
He opens the door, giving me a cursory glance. I look down, too, the lights in the hallway finally allowing me to see what I’m wearing.
It’s a uniform, I guess. Old-fashioned, the design simple and plain, the color a drab gray. There are pockets, but none large enough to fit a gun in.
Lev realizes the same. He holds a hand out. “I’ll take it for now. Will only raise suspicion for a maid to have one.”
“The maids wear this?” I ask, adjusting the fabric again in the hopes it’ll make it more comfortable. No luck.
He nods. “My mother is traditional.”
“She lives here?”
He nods. “Shoes.”
I only have one pair of sneakers with me. I pull them on and follow Lev down the silent hallway, missing the comforting weight of my gun in my hand. I hope Lev has a plan if anyone catches us because this ill-fitting dress doesn’t feel like much of a disguise.
This house is gigantic.
I tried to take it in last night, but I was disoriented. I’m still disoriented, but slightly more aware. And the size isn’t reassuring. It feels like too many corners to hide behind, too many bedrooms hosting enemies who will hear any misstep.
At the top of a stairwell—not the ornate one we ascended before—Lev stops. I do, too, worried there’s someone ahead. But he focuses on me, not our surroundings.
“I need a reason to rush you out of here,” he says. “One the guards won’t question.”
“Okay …” I say slowly, unsure of what that means.
Lev procures a knife from nowhere, and I gain a better idea.
“I’ll keep it shallow,” he tells me. “All the cars have first aid kits. It’ll bleed—that’s the whole point—but you won’t—”
“Just do it.” I hold my left palm out, figuring it’s better to keep my dominant hand in commission.
He doesn’t hesitate. The slice is so fast that I barely register the movement. One second, my hand looked normal. The next, there’s a red line. Blood begins to well, spreading across my palm and dripping down my fingers. Some of it stains the ugly dress.
Lev strips his black T-shirt off, twisting the fabric before pressing it against the cut.
I eye his bare chest, then the crimson spots speckled on my outfit. “Can we change before the wedding?”
His gaze cuts to mine, and I remember I haven’t shared my decision with him yet. He didn’t ask.
We stare at each other. Me, trying to glean some insight from his impassive expression. Him, I can’t tell. At least I can’t detect any disappointment or regret.
“Depends how this next part goes,” Lev replies, continuing down the stairs.
I follow, forcing deep exhales as the stinging in my hand grows more and more uncomfortable. It hurts to squeeze his T-shirt, so I’m not really applying pressure. Crimson continues to flow from the cut, a few drops of blood falling on the stairs.
When we reach the bottom, Lev veers left.
A few doors later, a right. This place is like a maze.
I spot the exit he must be headed toward, the doorframe taller than the others and heavier-looking.
Just before he reaches it, Lev kicks the leg of a table.
I watch as the vase on it wobbles, then falls, smashing into a dozen pieces.
It’s not that loud, but it echoes in my ears like cannon fire after the careful quiet.
Lev yanks the door open. He glances at me and barks something in Russian, beckoning me forward with one hand. Blindly, I listen, stumbling as one of the vase’s shards crunches beneath my sneakers.
I’m outside. It’s still dark past the floodlights that illuminate the exterior of the house. Not cold, but not warm either.
There are two men on either side of the door. Both heavily armed, both impassive.
Lev speaks to them in Russian. One nods. One glances at my bloody hand.
This is all part of his plan—I think. Again, I wish I’d taken the opportunity to learn Russian in the past twelve years. I didn’t because it felt pointless, pining for something I’d never have.
Lev yanks on my uninjured arm, pulling me away from the house. I stumble again, and it isn’t feigned. He gives me a second to right myself, and then we continue ahead.
“You did good,” he tells me after a minute, so I assume the guards we passed are out of earshot.
I don’t look back, worried that would be suspicious.
“All I had to do was bleed,” I remind him.
He makes an amused sound, and it eases some of the pain. I’m more relaxed than I thought possible in this situation simply because he’s beside me.
We reach a garage. Lev types a code in, and one of the doors begins to lift. The process probably takes twenty seconds, but it feels more like an hour.
He’s already started the engine by the time I climb in beside him. My movements are clumsier than normal. I can’t use my left hand, and I’m trying to avoid getting blood all over the interior of what appears to be an expensive car.
Lev doesn’t relax once we’re speeding along. I glance in the rearview mirror, at the lights behind us, wondering if some alarm is about to go off.
“Are there more guards ahead?”
He nods once. “The kit is in the glove compartment.”
I open it, then the box inside. The bleeding has started to slow. I find a gauze bandage and rip it open as the car’s speed decreases. We’re approaching a gate.
Lev lowers his window and says something in Russian. The guard nods, and the gate swings open.
The car accelerates again. I press the bandage on my palm, covering the cut. Experience a flash of déjà vu as I glance at Lev driving, his eyes intent on the road as we speed across asphalt.
This is different from when we left Paris or traveled to Dublin though.
This time, we’re headed to our wedding.