Page 11 of Deceitful Promises

He’s big, sure, broad, and strong, but he moves like my brothers. Mikhail and Dimitri are big and can move like big cats on the hunt. That’s what he seems like with each step. Not bothering to reply, I follow him. He leads me through two tall pines, and then I spot it: a small lodge sitting right in the middle of the trees, with nature trying to tear it back down, covered in vines and leaves.

“We’ll stay here until morning,” he says. “Then tomorrow, I’ll take you to Molly.”

“Cheers, stepbro.”

He tries to hide the flinch, but he does a poor job. It’s his fault for giving me a surefire way to get to him. He shouldn’t let me affect him as much asheaffectsme. We walk to the entrance of the lodge. As Aiden searches for keys in his pockets and opens the door, many escape scenarios play out in my head, but they all fail.

Inside, it’s musty, the air thick with dust. Otherwise, it could be a nice holiday lodge. There’s a fireplace, big, comfy-looking couches, and a natural home-away-from-home feel.

“I’ll show you to your room,” he says, “but we should eat first.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He glances at me sideways. Is that concern in his smoldering eyes? “You need to eat, Ania,” he says.

“Why? I’m fine.”

My foot taps in the way it does, like when I’m at home, and Mikhail or Dimitri say the same thing.Eat, eat, eat. They don’t understand that every successful ballerina in history has made food sacrifices to reach their goal of maintaining a certain weight.

I don’t want to get into all that now.

“I’m not hungry,” I say when he keeps staring.

“You haven’t eaten in over twelve hours.”

“I’m too stressed.”

He shakes his head with a sense of finality. “We’re eating. Are you a vegetarian?”

“No,” I say, almost swallowing too much saliva.

He leads us into a small kitchen and starts going through the cupboards. This kernel of panic won’t quit, pumping away deep inside me and making me want to run to the nearest bathroom. It’s always the same: people refusing to understand what it takes to be great at something.

“Soup okay? Something light.”

“Sure,” I mutter.

“I’ve got some frozen bread rolls I can heat up, too. Not exactly Michelin-level, but still.”

Why is he being so nice all of a sudden? I stare at the table, trying not to flinch when he places my glass of water down. I gulp down half of it. Maybe I can tell him I’ve filled myself with water, and he’ll leave me alone. I pick at the oak table as he turns on the gas oven.

I can feel him looking at me every few moments, but I don’t turn and face him. I don’t let that happen, not giving in to the urge. I can’t. I need to keep staring at the table and not think about the food, the sick liquid sliding down my neck, the chunks of meat in there, the vegetables, whatever it is—thestuff.

Too soon, it’s all ready. He places a bowl in front of me, two bread rolls on the side. I swallow, staring down at the food. He sits opposite and immediately starts tucking in, dipping the bread into the soup, tearing chunks with his teeth.

“You eat like an animal,” I say, my hands in my lap.

“Doesn’t matter how I eat,” he grunts, mopping up more soup. “As long as I can get the calories I need—the fuel.”

Is he dropping a hint?

“What are you waiting for?” he says.

I pick up my spoon and stare down into the soup. “What is it? Chicken?”

“Beef and vegetable.”

“It’s a funny color for beef.”

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