Chapter 16
2891words
I open my eyes, blearily gazing around my bedroom. At first, I don't notice the young woman hovering at my bedside. When I do, I throw my blankets back and fall off the mattress with a scream.
'Please." She lifts her hands to show she's not armed. 'Calm down!"
'Who are you?" I demand, rising to my feet, clutching my silver silk nightgown. 'What do you want?"
The woman is my age, or close to it. She's wearing the same starched dress that every other staff member wears. Her pale blonde hair, light as corn fibers, makes her tan skin seem richer. 'Miss, I'm Masha. I'm your attendant this morning."
'My what?" Looking from side to side nervously, in case there are others hiding in my room, I approach her around my bed. 'I don't need an attendant."
'Of course you do." She blinks, giving me a stare that hints she thinks I'm the weird one. 'You're the future wife of Mr. Volkov."
Hearing that makes my whole body flush. 'So what? He's the boss here, not me."
'Miss … you're my boss as well."
'I'm definitely not."
Masha chews her bottom lip, getting more uneasy the longer we stand there. 'My job is to serve you."
'Well, I don't want that. I can take care of myself."
'You don't need me to help you choose an outfit for the day? Or wash your hair? Perhaps I can style it for you? Oh! I know! A back rub!"
My mouth drops open, aghast. 'Oh God, no."
'I see." Masha flinches like I slapped her. 'Um, then, I guess I'll be going."
She's acting like I let her down somehow. Once she's gone, I shake my head in wonder. Weird.
I take a quick shower, drying my hair in front of the extravagant vanity mirror. The stool, with its elegant, curved wooden legs, is topped with a plush white cushion. It matches the scrunchie I use to tie my hair off my neck.
Throwing open the wardrobe, I go taut at the sight of the tightly packed hangers of new clothing. I discovered them yesterday after Layla notified me she'd stocked the closet, but I made no effort to explore the outfits. In a way, I didn't want to know everything that had been bought. There's something off-putting about having someone shop for me. That kind of stuff is reserved for celebrities, not kidnapping victims.
Nonetheless, I start rifling through the items, surveying my options.
I can't be mad at Layla's taste. She might dress like a stuffy maid, but these outfits are straight from ELLE magazine. Settling on a pastel blue baby-doll dress and some rose-gold flats, I face the bedroom door. I never know what I'll find on the other side. It could be more staff or one of the armed soldiers.
It might even be Asher.
My heart hitches at the thought.
I haven't seen him since yesterday, when he was forced out of the parlor before I chose a wedding dress. He's probably busy. Plotting the demise of an enemy takes a lot of effort. I mentally roll my eyes. I don't want to care about where he is or what he's up to, but I do.
Somehow, he's begun hooking himself into my mind, clinging deeper and tighter each day that passes.
In the hallway outside, I spot a young man. He's decked out in dark brown slacks and a matching vest over a cream dress shirt. There are more women staff than men in the mansion—most of the men I see are guards—but a few male staff wander the halls here and there.
They always ignore me. But today, the man smiles lightly and bows at the waist. 'Mistress," he addresses me.
I pull up short. 'Can I help you?"
'That's my job," he answers quickly. 'Do you need assistance?"
I quickly shake my head. 'Just going to the kitchen for breakfast."
'Of course, I'll let the chef know. He'll make you something fresh."
'No, that's okay!" Waving my hands to stop him, I put on a tight smile. 'I can make myself something to eat. It's no problem."
'But— '
'I've been feeding myself for years; it's fine," I say, hurrying away from him.
I breathe easier once I'm out of his sight. It's not long before another staff member—this one a woman with thick, heavy bangs in her eyes—notices me.
She too bows low. 'Mistress! Good morning!"
'I don't need anything!" I yell as I power-walk around her.
She gives me a perturbed look but says nothing
It's not the end of my awkward encounters. I pass three more staff on my way downstairs to the kitchen. Every single one of them makes a point of showing their deference and offering me their devoted attention.
The vibe in the mansion has certainly changed.
For the past three days, I've generally been left alone. Layla would bring me things, either guessing my needs or asking me directly, but the rest of the staff milling through Asher's home kept their distance. But between Masha waiting by my side this morning, and now the others hurrying to seek my approval at every turn, it's clear that's over with.
I'm breathing fast as I enter the kitchen. To my amazement and relief, there's no one here. The massive stainless-steel fridge calls my name. My stomach cramps angrily, impatiently demanding food. Opening the fridge, I'm stunned by the amount of food inside. Everything is packed in perfect rows; whoever organized it must be a master at LEGOs.
Frowning thoughtfully, I search through the items. Nothing is premade. It's all raw things that have to be cooked.
'Are Pop-Tarts not good enough for these people?" I mutter.
With a dour frown, I abandon the fridge to search the rest of the kitchen. I can't tell which cupboard is the pantry, and every door I open keeps revealing more rows of crystal glasses or trays of silverware.
One drawer sticks a bit. Giving it a hard yank, I grunt, straining with my heels digging into the floor. The entire thing flies outward, spilling spoons and forks across the tiles. I cover my ears, cringing through the clattering noise.
'This is insane!" I groan. 'I just want some breakfast."
'Oh, miss! Let me?—"
'No!" I snap at the girl with a red braid who appears out of nowhere at the sound of my voice. She recoils, mouth agape, then flees around the corner. She almost slams into Layla, who shifts sideways more nimbly than I thought she could move.
Layla looks around the corner where the girl went. She turns slowly, eyeing the mess I made, then eyes me in distaste.
'You can't act like this, Camila."
Scooping the utensils into the drawer, I replace them in the drawer as fast as possible. They aren't lining up nicely, but I keep going.
'Tell me what's going on. Why is everyone being weird?"
'They're not." She wrinkles her nose at the sight of me cleaning. 'You are."
She claps her hands and two women burst into the room, snapping their heels together as they stand at attention. They have nearly identical black jaw-length hair with piercing blue eyes.
'Varya, clean up the mess there. Terra, I want both of you to go upstairs and freshen up the mistress's room."
'Yes, ma'am!" they crow simultaneously. Varya kneels down, ignoring how I wave my hands at her to show I don't need help. With precision she soon has the silverware aligned, the drawer set back in place. Without a parting word, she bows, and vanishes off in the direction the other woman went.
I widen my eyes at Layla. 'I get asking for help with the utensil spill, but why have the other one clean my room?"
'It's a display," she explains. 'You need to learn to order the staff around as efficiently, as confidently, as myself or Asher."
'Why?"
'The wife of the pakhan is expected to have a certain air to her."
I snort derisively. 'You expect me to be a bossy narcissist like him? No thanks."
'There are customs that you must adhere to."
'Why does it matter? I'm not his wife, not really. It's all fake, you know that!"
'It's precisely because it is fake that you should act like everything is as real as possible."
Mulling that over, I wonder if I've been looking at this too lackadaisically. The household is a mix of people in on the ruse, and others who aren't. A pretend marriage is pointless if no one believes it.
Asher wants it to look legit so he can complete whatever his plan with Yannick is.
And I need that plan to work if I'm ever to have any hopes of getting out of here.
'I'll try harder," I swear. She responds with a pleased smile. Clearing my throat, I stand a bit taller. 'Girls!" I yell, working to keep my voice clear and even. I'm not sure what to expect, but I'm surprised when two different women rush into the kitchen. I recognize Ollie, who beams at me. The other one has light brown hair that drifts in long waves around her round face.
Ollie's arms are folded securely behind her back, and her elbows stick out from her side. 'How can we help you, miss?"
Not used to giving commands, I fumble a bit. The words come out in a jumble. 'I'd like—if it's okay—some French toast."
Ollie lights up like I gave her amazing news. 'Of course!" She scurries to the fridge, gathering ingredients with the speed of an expert. Layla catches my eye—she motions at the table. Catching the hint, I sit down, still watching Ollie with interest.
She zips around the kitchen with familiarity, grabbing bowls, a whisk, a container of flour. Setting down a thick loaf of bread, she nimbly carves generous slices. Her petite size hides immense strength; her forearms tense as they heft a cast iron skillet off a wall hook, setting it on the stove.
Layla bends close to my ear. 'In the time it would have taken you to find the bread, she's made a batter to dip the French toast in."
I bite back a retort. She's not wrong, but it galls me. 'Excuse me, mistress," Varya says, holding up two baseball-sized oranges. 'Would you like some fresh juice?"
Fighting down my instinct to say no, I nod politely. 'Please."
Eager to help, the young woman rushes to the other side of the kitchen. Using an old cone-shaped juicer, she crushes the fruit onto it by hand. The room fills with a mix of delicious scents: citrus, sugar, hot butter.
Twirling toward me like a dancer, Ollie places a flat white dish stacked with two fat slabs of French toast coated in powdered sugar in front of me. 'Here," she says, setting a silver urn beside the fork and knife. 'Syrup, if it's not sweet enough."
'Your juice, mistress." Varya puts a mason jar–sized glass of bright orange juice by my left elbow. The pair stands back, watching me like two puppies that want a treat.
Layla nudges my foot under the table. 'Uh, thank you." It comes out emphatically because I really am thankful. 'You two did a great job." Cutting into the French toast, I place it in my mouth. It's tender, with just enough resistance to keep it from being soggy. Swallowing it is pure heaven. 'Wow. This is so good." I wash it down with the juice, then gasp. 'This is amazing too!"
The girls beam at me, then each other.
I eat a few more bites before I notice they're keenly observing me. With a weak smile, I wave my fork in a tiny circle. 'Please don't watch me eat. You can go. Thanks again."
Curtsying, the pair hurries out of the room. Layla stares at me as I eat, ignoring what I just said to the others about not wanting to be watched.
When I'm mopping the plate with the final bite of bread, she lets out a tired sigh. 'We have a lot of work to do."
Oh, she thinks I have bad manners. I had a teacher like her once in school. An old crone who would scold me for being sloppy. In retaliation, I chew the last of the French toast aggressively, then chug the juice. I set the glass down loudly. It's an immature reaction, but I hate having my habits picked apart.
'I think I did fine. They did what I asked, and I only felt like a little bit like a brat for commanding them."
'You shouldn't feel anything negative about this, Camila."
'Yeah, well, I do." Lifting my dishes, I head to the sink.
'Nyet!" Layla glares openly at me. 'That's a task the future wife of the pakhan should delegate."
'It sounds to me like needing people to do basic tasks would make me appear weaker." I run water over the plate, rinse the glass, then put them in the dishwasher. They're the only items in it. 'I'll do my best to play the role you're telling me to, Layla, but don't expect me to turn into a bossy bitch."
Her mouth pops open. 'Excuse me?"
'It's pointless to act so offended; I know Asher uses more foul language than me."
That shuts her up. Her face tints red—I really got under her skin. Layla folds her hands daintily in her lap as she regains her composure.
'You have much to learn about the Bratva. It's time I taught you the basics before you humiliate Asher and the rest of his house."
Perking up curiously, I settle back in my chair across from her. 'We agree on something, for once. I'd love to learn more."
'What would you like to know first?"
Presented with access to a trove of information I've been seeking since day one, my mind grows blank. Asher's dark underbelly of a world has been a whirlwind experience. I don't know where to begin. Centering myself, I rack my brain until a single question arises. 'He told me he's the pakhan of the Grachev Bratva. What does that mean?"
Her eyes warm with sympathy. 'If that's a mystery to you, then you truly don't know your situation. Asher should have prepared you more."
'You mean before he kidnapped me?" I remind her wryly. 'Yeah, that would have been polite."
She deliberately ignores my snide comments. 'The pakhan is the leader of the Bratva. Asher has held the position for ten years. Below him are his brigadiers, his most trusted men." She lifts a hand, ticking off her fingers as she talks. 'Then there are the soldiers, the boeviki."
'The guys who helped him capture me," I mutter. 'Was he one of the boeviki?"
'Yes. They are loyal to Asher in every sense of the word. In the Bratva, you obey the pakhan, or your life is forfeit."
'That's crazy. What if he gives them an order they don't want to follow?"
'They are sworn by oath to obey. Want has nothing to do with it."
'Seems like a good way to get a bunch of people to backstab you." I say it jokingly, but the way her face darkens makes me wonder if I hit close to home. 'Is there a way to tell who is or isn't in the Bratva?"
'Tattoos. Every man of the Bratva has some."
The image of Asher's inked knuckles flits through my memory. 'What do they mean?"
'Different things. Some signify their past deeds, terrible or great things they've done, and their ranks. It is a simple yet elegant system. A man need only show his tattoos to prove who he is and the weight of his words."
An awful idea occurs to me, one so intense the French toast I ate curdles in my belly. 'Am I going to be tattooed?"
Placing her hands flat on the table, Layla shakes her head emphatically. 'The only time women are inked if they're the sole heirs."
Tracing my nails over my inner wrist, I picture color staining my flesh the way it marks Asher. Layla meant her words to be a comfort. I know that. But I can't forget the small detail that continues to nibble away at the back of my head … I'm being forced to marry a killer.
'An heir," I wonder out loud. 'So if Asher has a child, he or she will have to be tattooed? That's so cruel."
'No," she chides me. 'We're not needling newborns. Besides, what if a sibling arrives? Then they're not the only child anymore. The Bratva is always changing … growing. No tattoo is freely given. They must be earned."
I'm listening, but my mind has begun to wander. Discussing Asher as a father is wild. It leads me on a merging path back to thinking about my own parents. Mom ... are you okay? Why haven't you messaged me again? Or tried to call? I can do backflips to justify her being angry enough to give me the silent treatment, but in the end, it isn't enough to quell my worries.
I have to know if she's okay.
But I don't like the solution I come up with to do that.
