Page 46 of Little Blue

“Should be tomorrow.”

I give a small nod. “Thank you.”

As I’m leaving the kitchen with every intention of hiding in my room—or Ilya’s room—until dinner—Luka calls my name, “Irelynn.”

I stop and turn. “Hmm?”

He stands and hands me what I quickly recognize is an ereader. The cover is floral, vibrant and blue. “It’s been loaded with books—” He clears his throat. “Books Ilya thinks you’ll like.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I don’t tell him that I won’t read it. I get terrible headaches when I read at length from a screen. It’s why I’d visited the library at home, because I hadn’t been able to afford to purchase paperbacks at the rate that I read them.

The gesture is nice, though.

I walk myself and my new, fully stocked ereader back to Ilya’s room.

Ilya doesn’t return the next day.

I spend my time between meals snuggling with Lucy on the couch in Ilya’s room and taking naps. Lucy is in love with his new home. He doesn’t know I have every intention of getting out of here with him in tow.

One would think it’s cruel to contain a cat to such a small space, but Lucy grew up in my one room apartment from kitten on, so Ilya’s massive rooms is like a castle in my cat’s eyes, surely. He’s living like a king.

It’s been three nights that I’ve slept alone in Ilya’s room. I haven’t heard from him, but after stealthily interrogating Luka, I’ve learned that he’s still alive and well, even though he’s experiencing some trouble with his business.

Luka doesn’t know when he’ll return.

I’m getting angrier as the days pass, because the man took me from my life only to dump me in his house in the middle of nowhere. In frigging Russia.

With nothing to do except read an ereader with books I desperately want to read but can’t.

I could kill him.

Really, my ability to murder is becoming more and more real as the days pass. My rage more and more honed.

I’m no longer able to sit idle in his room and wait, twiddling my thumbs and watching my cat fall in love with a thread count I’ll never be able to afford.

I’ve been exploring his house. I don’t even care if I’m invading his privacy at this point. The only room I’ve not been able to poke my head into is his office. The door is locked and even Luka doesn’t have a key.

He does, however, have four spare bedrooms on the same floor as his bedroom. They’re all beautiful, and big, and lovely.

But they don’t smell like winter and flame, spiced berries and sin.

By the sixth day of no Ilya, I move all my clothes from his closet into the room at the far end of the hall. Boris stands with his arms folded across a broad chest in the hall, ankles crossed as he leans his big body into the wall.

“You can help, you know?” I grump.

“Nope.”

I glare, then snap, “Then go away.”

“Nope.”

I roll my eyes. Over the last week, I’ve learned that Boris is difficult.

After hanging my clothes in the closet of the room that is decorated in soft creams and warm, rich browns with accents of red, I march myself back down the hallway, past Boris—I swear he’s smiling—and into Ilya’s room. With Lucy under my arm, I march back down the hall to my new room where I slam the door. Lucy gives the room a cautious once-over before he decides it’s to his newly honed, Kingly liking.

I spend the majority of my day sitting in the window nook with Lucy, watching the dogs roam their cage. There is more than one dog breed in the large enclosure, but they’re all beautifully trained. They sit prettily when the men pass, some even wagging their tails hopeful for pets. And sometimes, one of the men will pluck three or four dogs from the enclosure to walk the property with before they are enclosed again.

They’re all beautiful dogs. I’ve never had a dog, and can’t say I know breeds, but I can see that each one of these is powerful and probably deadly. Beside me, Lucy peers down at the enclosure with his yellow eyes and what can only be a kitty scowl.

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