by Zaires, Anna
I steal another glance at Nikolai’s knuckles, a horrible thought slithering into my mind.
To my infinite relief, the injuries look fresh, as if he’s just pounded something or someone into the ground. Since Slava’s been with me all morning, he couldn’t have been that someone. Besides, only an impact of great force could’ve caused those types of contusions, and there’s nothing about the way Nikolai’s son is sitting or moving that would indicate he’s been beaten so severely—or at all.
Whatever my employer is guilty of, it’s not child abuse, thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if that were the case. No, scratch that. I know. I’d call Child Protective Services and run, taking my chances with my mom’s killers.
Which reminds me: I still don’t have my car keys.
I’m about to ask Nikolai about them when Alina smiles at me and asks, “Have you always wanted to be a teacher, Chloe?”
I nod, setting down my fork. “Pretty much. I’ve always loved both children and teaching. Even as a child, I’d often play with kids younger than myself so I could cast myself in the role of their instructor.” I grin, shaking my head. “I think I just liked having them look up to me. Stroked my ego and all that.”
As I speak, I’m cognizant of Nikolai’s eyes on me, intent and unwavering. A predator’s stare, filled with both hunger and infinite patience. My skin burns under its weight, and it takes everything I have to keep my gaze on Alina and pick up my fork as if nothing is happening.
She asks about my choice of college next, and I tell her how I was lucky enough to get a full-ride scholarship there.
“I’d never even thought about applying to such an expensive school,” I say between bites of delicious smoked fish and richly flavored beet salad. It helps if I concentrate on the food instead of the man staring at me. “My mom worked as a waitress, and money was tight for as long as I can recall. I was going to go to community college, then transfer to a state school, using a combination of scholarships, loans, and work-study to pay my way through. But just as I started my senior year of high school, I got an invitation to apply for this special scholarship program at Middlebury. It was for children of low-income single parents, and it covered one hundred percent of tuition, room, and board, in addition to providing an allowance for books and miscellaneous expenses. Naturally, I applied—and somehow got in.”
“Why somehow?” Nikolai asks. “Weren’t you a good student?”
I have no choice but to meet his penetrating stare. “I was, but there were students in my circumstances who were far more qualified and didn’t get it.” Like my friend Tanisha, who’d gotten a perfect score on her SATs and graduated as our class valedictorian. I told her about the scholarship, and she applied to the program as well, only to be instantly rejected. To this day, I wonder why they chose me and not her; if it was a matter of surviving adversity, Tanisha had a “better” story, with her partially disabled mother raising not one but three children on her own, one of them—Tanisha’s younger brother—with special needs.
“Maybe they saw something in you,” Nikolai says, his eyes tracing over every inch of my face. “Something that intrigued them.”
I shrug, trying to ignore the heat coursing under my skin. “Could be. More likely, though, it was just dumb luck.” It had to have been, because a couple of months later, Tanisha got acceptance letters from every school she’d applied to, including Harvard, which she ended up attending thanks to a generous financial aid package. Not as generous as the scholarship I got—she graduated with seventy thousand dollars in student loans—but good enough that I stopped feeling guilty about taking the spot that should’ve been hers.
Being a nice person, she’s never acted anything but happy for me, but I know how much the scholarship committee’s rejection devastated her.
“I don’t think it was dumb luck,” Nikolai says softly. “I think you’re underestimating your appeal.”
Oh God. My heart rate jacks up, my face burning impossibly hotter as Alina stiffens, her gaze bouncing between me and her brother. There’s no mistaking his meaning, no waving it off as a casual compliment about my scholastic abilities, and she knows it as well as I do.
Still, I try. Pretending like it’s all a joke, I grin widely. “That’s very nice of you to say. What about you two? Where did you go to school?”
There. Change of topic. I’m proud of myself until I realize that if, for some reason, either of the siblings didn’t go to college, my question could offend them.
Thankfully, Alina doesn’t bat an eye. “I went to Columbia, and Kolya finished Princeton.” She’s composed again, her manner friendly and polite. “Our father wanted us to attend college in America; he thought it provided the best opportunities.”
“Is that why you speak English so well?” I ask, and she nods.
“That, and we both attended boarding school here as well.”
“Oh, that explains the lack of accent. I’ve been wondering how you both managed not to have it.”
“We also had American tutors back in Russia,” Nikolai says, a mocking half-smile playing on his lips. Clearly, he knows I’m trying to diffuse the tension, and he finds my efforts amusing. “Don’t forget that, Alinchik.”
His sister stiffens again for some reason, and I busy myself with clearing the rest of my plate. I have no idea what landmine I’ve stepped on, but I know better than to proceed with this topic. As I’m finishing up my food, I glance over at Slava and find him done as well.
“Would you like some more?” I ask, smiling as I gesture at his empty plate.
He blinks up at me, and Alina says something in Russian, presumably translating my question.
He shakes his head, and I smile at him again before looking over the other adults at the table. To my relief, they appear to have finished also, with Nikolai just sitting back, watching me, and Alina gracefully patting her lips with a napkin. Miraculously, her red lipstick leaves no traces on the white cloth—though I probably shouldn’t be surprised, given that the bright color survived the entire meal without smearing or fading.
One of these days, I’m going to ask her to share her beauty secrets with me. I have a feeling Nikolai’s sister knows more about makeup and clothes than ten YouTube influencers combined.
I’m about to excuse myself and Slava so we can resume our lessons when Pavel and Lyudmila walk in. He’s carrying a tray with pretty little cups, a jar of honey, and a glass teapot filled with black tea. He sets it on the table while Lyudmila clears away the dishes.
“None for me, thank you,” I say when he places a cup in front of me. “I don’t drink tea.”
He gives me a look suggesting I’m little better than a wild animal, then whisks my cup away and pours tea for everyone else, my student included. The delicate china looks ridiculous in his massive hands, but he handles the task deftly, making me wonder if he worked in some high-end restaurant prior to joining the Molotov household.
“Thank you for a wonderful meal. Everything was delicious,” I tell him when he passes by me, but he just grunts in response, stacking the dishes that his wife didn’t get to in a carefully arranged pyramid on top of the tray before carrying them all away. It’s not until he’s gone that I remember something important.
I turn to Nikolai, my face warming again as I meet his tiger gaze. “I keep forgetting to ask… Did Pavel repark my car somewhere? I didn’t see it in front of the house. Also, I don’t think I ever got my car keys back.”
“Really? That’s odd.” Adding a spoonful of honey to his tea, Nikolai stirs the liquid. “I’ll ask him about that.” He hands the honey jar to Slava, who adds several spoonfuls into his cup—the boy must have a serious sweet tooth.
“That would be great, thank you,” I say, picking up my glass of plain water—the only liquid besides coffee I like to drink. “What about the car? Is there a garage or something nearby?”
“At the back of the house, just underneath the terrace,” Alina replies in her brother’s stead. “Pavel m
ust’ve moved it there.”
“Okay, awesome.” I grin, inexplicably relieved. “I was half-afraid you guys decided it’s too much of an eyesore and pushed it into the ravine.”
Alina laughs at my joke, but Nikolai just smiles and sips his honey-sweetened tea, watching me with an inscrutable expression.
19
Chloe
The rest of the afternoon flies by. As soon as lunch is over, I find the garage—the entrance to it is at the back of the house, just past the laundry room—and verify that my car is indeed there, looking even older and rustier next to my employers’ sleek SUVs and convertibles. Then, since the weather is beautiful—low seventies and sunny—I take Slava for a hike in the forested portion of the estate rather than teaching him in his room. We tromp through a wildflower-filled meadow, climb down to a small lake we find about a half mile to the west, and chase a dozen squirrels into the trees. Well, Slava chases them, giggling maniacally; I just observe him with a smile.
He’s an entirely different boy out here than in the dining room with his family.
As we make our way through the woods, he chatters in Russian, and I reply in English whenever I can guess what he’s saying. I also make sure to give him English words for everything we encounter, and I do my best to learn the Russian words he teaches me.
“Belochka,” he says, pointing at a squirrel, only to break into giggles when I mangle the word in my attempt to repeat it. He, on the other hand, pronounces English words perfectly almost from the first try; I suspect he’s either been watching English-language cartoons or he has perfect pitch.
Musically inclined kids tend to master accents faster than their peers.
“Do you like music?” I ask as we’re returning home. I hum a few notes to demonstrate. “Or singing?” I do my best rendition of “Baby Shark,” which causes him to whoop in laughter.
In case there was any doubt, I’m not musically inclined.
As we approach the house, Pavel comes out to greet us, a fierce glower on his face. “Where were you? It’s almost five, and he hasn’t had his snack.”
“Oh, we were—”
“And your clothes have been delivered. They’re in your room.” Eyeing Slava’s dirty shoes with disapproval, he picks up the boy and carries him into the house, muttering something in Russian.
Chagrined, I take off my muddy sneakers and follow them in. I probably should’ve cleared our hike with Slava’s caretakers, or at least kept better track of time. I did bring a couple of apples for Slava to munch on if he got hungry—I grabbed them from the kitchen before leaving—but I guess that’s not as complete of a meal as the cheese-and-fruit tray Pavel brought up yesterday.
When I get to my room, I wash my hands and fix my bun; a bunch of fine strands have escaped the confinement and are framing my face in a messy halo. Then I head into my closet to check out the delivery.
Holy shit.
The walk-in closet—ninety-five-percent empty after I unpacked my suitcase—is now packed to the brim. And it’s not just the fancy gowns my employers mandate for dinner. There are jeans and yoga pants, tank tops and T-shirts and sweaters, casual sundresses and sleek pencil skirts, socks and pajamas and hats. And underwear, all kinds, from thongs to comfy cotton panties to sports bras and lacy push-up bras, all improbably in my size. There’s even outerwear—lots and lots of outwear, ranging from light rain jackets and sleek wool coats to puffy parkas that would withstand arctic weather.
It’s a closet for all seasons and all occasions, and judging by the tags, everything’s brand-new.
Stunned, I turn over a tag hanging from a soft-looking white sweater.
$395.
What the fuck?
I grab a tag from the nearest parka, a pretty blue one with a fur-lined hood.
€3.499. Made in Italy.
“You like?”
I give a start and spin around to face Alina, who’s standing at the entrance of the closet.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, flicking her glossy black hair over her shoulder. She’s already changed into another stunning gown, a red ankle-length piece with a thigh-high slit that shows a sliver of one long, toned leg. She’s also refreshed her makeup, extending the eyeliner to emphasize the feline quality of her tip-tilted eyes.
“I knocked, but no one answered,” she continues, “so I figured you were exploring your new things.”
“I was—I am.” I glance over my shoulder at the packed hangers and shelves. “Is that… all for me?”
“Of course. Who else would it be for? I don’t need any more, that’s for sure.” Strolling over to stand next to me, she pulls out a long yellow dress and holds it up to my chest, then hangs it up and pulls out a pale pink one.
“But it’s way too much,” I say as she holds the pink dress against me, only to reject it as well. “I don’t need all of this. A few dresses for dinner, sure, but the rest—”
“That’s my brother for you. Nikolai doesn’t do half measures.” She flips through the rest of the gowns with practiced speed and pulls out a shimmery peach number. Versace, the label on it states, and there’s no price tag in sight—probably because the amount would be scary. Holding it up against me, Alina gives a satisfied nod. “Try this on.” She thrusts it into my arms.
“Right now?”
She arches her eyebrows. “I can turn away if you’re shy.” Matching action to words, she gives me her back.
Suppressing an exasperated sigh, I quickly scramble out of my clothes and into the dress—which somehow fits perfectly, the gold-speckled peach chiffon draping over my body with stunning elegance. The A-line skirt falls gracefully to my feet, and the square-cut bodice has a built-in bra that lifts my modest B cups, giving me a hint of cleavage. The wide straps conceal my shoulders, but my arms and the upper portion of my back are left bare, exposing the scabs from where the shards of glass pierced my skin.
Dammit. I was hoping to avoid showing those until they’ve healed.
“Ready?” Alina sounds impatient.
“Just one sec.” I twist my arm behind my back, trying to get the zipper all the way up. “Actually, do you think you could…?”
“Of course.” She zips me up and steps back to give me a once-over. Instantly, her gaze homes in on the scabs. “What happened here?” she asks, a tiny frown creasing her smooth brow.
“It’s nothing.” I grimace, as if embarrassed by my clumsiness. “I tripped and fell on some broken glass.”
The explanation must satisfy her because she lets it go and resumes her perusal. “Very nice,” she finally declares. “But that bun has to go.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay—”
“Come.” Grabbing my hand, she drags me out of the closet and into the bathroom, where she makes me stand in front of the mirror. “See? You need to wear your hair down with this. Also, makeup is a must.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, messy bun, dark circles, and all. She’s right. A dress this glamorous deserves the works. Unfortunately, I only have a tube of lip gloss with me, having trashed the majority of the items in my makeup bag when I was clearing out my dorm room after graduation. I figured I’d go shopping with Mom when I got home. She loved that sort of thing, and we always—
I stop that line of thought and inhale to clear the painful constriction in my chest. “I can take my hair down, but I don’t really have—”
“Yes, you do.” She pulls open one of the drawers next the sink, revealing a selection of tubes and bottles that would make a professional makeup artist proud. “I made sure Nikolai got all the necessities,” she explains.
“You helped him buy all this?”
“Who else?” She grins, revealing that perfectly imperfect little gap between her straight white teeth. “None of my brothers know mascara from lipliner.”
My ears perk up. “Brothers?”
She nods, reaching into the drawer. “There are four of us. I’m the youngest and the only girl.” She uncaps a foundation
bottle and grabs my hand, turning it palm up. Smearing a streak of bronze color on my inner wrist, she eyes it critically, then opens a slightly more golden shade and tests that.
“Where are your other brothers?” I ask, watching her work in fascination. I did just think it might be nice to get a lesson from her one day, and here we are. I’ve always had trouble finding the right foundation; most drugstore brands offer shades that are either too light, too dark, or too ashy. But the second color Alina tries blends into my skin perfectly—she definitely knows what she’s doing.
“They’re both in Moscow,” she replies, capping the bottle. “Well, at this moment, Konstantin is on a business trip in Berlin, but you know what I mean.” She sets the bottle on the counter in front of me, along with mascara, eyeliner, and a bunch of other stuff, including an egg-shaped sponge that she wets under the faucet. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she asks, “Do you mind if I do your face? Or would you rather do it yourself?”
“No, please, go ahead.” I’m more than eager for her to continue. Beauty lesson aside, this is a chance for me to learn more about my mysterious employers without Nikolai’s darkly magnetic presence scrambling my brains.
“All right then, wash your face and come along.”
I do as she says while she sweeps all the makeup she laid out into a little silver case. After I pat my face dry and moisturize with a fancy-looking face cream I find in yet another drawer, she leads me back into the bedroom, where she stands me in front of the floor-to-ceiling window—natural light is best, she explains. Placing the makeup case on the nightstand nearby, she steps in front of me and, bending her head with a look of intense concentration, begins applying foundation with the damp sponge.
“You always want to pat, not rub,” she explains, dabbing at my cheeks. “The color blends in best that way.”
“Good to know, thank you.” I wait until she’s done with my chin before asking, “So what made you and Nikolai decide to come here? I imagine it must be a big change from Moscow.”