Page 47 of Little Blue

“You don’t want to play with the big boys,” I tell him. “You’ll be the new chew toy.”

Lucy looks at me with a haughtiness that can only mean he understands, and he disapproves. I can’t help it, I laugh.

Goodness, I’m so lonely, I’m laughing at my cat because of a verbiage that is mostly inside my head.

I give another chuff, “I guess it’s really no different than when we were at home. Only now, we’re surrounded by pretty things.”

He must hear the sadness in my voice, because Lucy inches closer. His big yellow eyes implore me for a pet, and I oblige. Some of the tightness eases in my chest as I stroke his soft black fur.

Glancing back through the window at the dogs, I decide I’m going to meet them soon. Before I do, I’ll throw the curtains closed so as not to send a needle of jealousy through Lucy’s heart.

It’s been eight days. I’m convinced the asshole has abandoned me entirely.

“I swear, the next time I see him, I’m going to—I’m going to—” Big, warm brown eyes peer into my own as I sit on the frozen wood bench outside the kennel. There are eight dogs in total, and I’d say I’ve officially won over six in the last thirty-six hours. “Okay, okay, so I’m not a violent person. I can’t hurt him, though sometimes he makes me feel like I could turn a new leaf. But I’m angry,” I tell the dogs. They listen, for the most part, raptly.

Neither Luka nor Boris will let me inside the kennel, and they won’t take the dogs out for introductions, either. They’ve firmly forbade me from sticking any body parts through the cage and stand with their guns ready whenever I visit.

When I asked what the gun was for, Boris had said, “It’s for them. If they make any motion to harm you, I shoot to kill.”

I’d been horrified, but it had been enough for me to maintain my distance. Not because I thought the dogs would harm me, they seemed to like me just fine. But because I didn’t want one of them to take a step toward me and be shot for it.

Without glancing away from the pups, I ask Boris, “Why can’t you introduce me to them? I’ve seen you out here with them. They’re good with you. Playful, even.”

“Ilya and Misha are the only ones who make the introductions. Until then, the dogs see you as the enemy.”

“What does that mean?” I peer over my shoulder at him now.

His eyes slide from the cage to me. They move swiftly back to the cage; Boris doesn’t like to look at me. “You don’t want to find out.”

I glance back at the enclosure and mutter, “Dogs with teeth.” In my head I finish, “that tear into flesh.”

This is my third night in my new room, soon going on my second week without Ilya. I hate that I miss him.

But I do. So, so much.

Luka is nice and Polina and Daniil are great. How I feel about Boris is undecided. He and Luka take shifts ‘guarding’ me. Luka is easy to get on with. But Boris…sometimes, the way he watches me with his lips twisted into a scowl, I have a feeling he doesn’t like me. Or maybe he’s trying not to like me, but I don’t know why he’d do that.

I’ve been trying to win him over, however. Today, I made a traditional Russian pastry with Polina, and as Boris was just getting on his ‘Guard Irelynn Gig’ I’d decided to sweeten him up with a still warm from the oven, freshly glazed, treat.

Then, I challenged him to a duel in the form of a card game I’d played with my father before…

Anyway, I kicked Boris’ butt three times at War, won one real grin, and a half chuckle. At my third win, I danced a jig in my chair and earned myself one of those manly head dip and shakes. The ones where they’re trying to hide how sweetly amused they are by a woman.

As for me, my grin had been triumphant. Not long after, I’d yawned, and Boris had called it a night. He’d walked me up to my new room, glancing once at Ilya’s closed door before muttering, “He’s not going to like this.”

Not even Luka had warned me with such words. To Boris, I lifted a shoulder and replied, “Well, I don’t like him.”

His brows dipped in, and he studied me for a moment too long. Discomfort edged into the fragile comfort I’d built with Boris so far, and I’d placed a hesitant hand on the knob of my door, ready to run.

Then he’d said, “Sleep well, Little Irelynn.” With warning in his eyes, he added, “Lock your door.”

Now, I’ve showered in the lovely, attached bathroom, and am settled in bed wearing—shoot—a shirt I’d thieved from Ilya’s closet under Luka’s watchful, amused eye earlier today.

I’d tried to wear my own t-shirts to bed once Ilya left and didn’t return. But the material felt wrong and somehow itchy on my skin. The scent was a whole other matter. I realize, much to my horror, that I crave the scent of him when I sleep. It makes me feel not quite so alone.

I’ll never admit the words aloud. Not. Ever.

I fall into a fitful sleep. Every night has been fitful since Ilya left.

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