Page 24 of Vasily the Nail

Maybe.

No, definitely gross. Yuck. Super gross, not even a little bit encouraging me to wrap my legs around his waist to rub myself on him. That’s absurd.

And again, he masturbated in the shower, butagain,I was too tired to keep myself awake to ask him about stuff when he got out.

He would have used that stupid accent anyway. I would have gotten mad. I probably shouldn’t yell at my captor when he’s hopefully just brought a bunch of my personal belongings.

It’s a relief seeing them in the corner of the bedroom in the morning. He even packed my clothes in my cutesy suitcase my dad got me when he took me to Australia when I was seven and I insisted I wanted a suitcase that was pinkwithflowers. It’s rare I go anywhere anymore, and I’m usually with Tony, who insists I use the Coco Chanel suitcase, so my tummy fills with butterflies when I see it there in the living room. It’s enough to soothe much of my irritation.

I decided something last night after Kseniya left. If I get pregnant, I don’t know what will happen, if I’ll be forced to marry Vasily or if I’ll just be sent somewhere to have the baby.

Do I want to marry Vasily? I have no idea who he is, and right now, I’m thinking like I have a choice, so the answer is no.

Do I want to spend the rest of my life in this apartment? No.

Do I want to go off somewhere to have the baby that will be put up for adoption and then return to my brother, knowing that I’ll be little more than a prize for an underling? Definitely not.

But if Vasily turned out to be as respectful to his wife as he is to his sister, if I behave myself and prove myself trustworthy, I’ll have freedom here. And if I’m sent off, I’ll have the best opportunity to run. I can really plan it, figure out what I need and where I can go. It’s not a great situation to be in, but I think it’s best if Vasily continues to believe I’m on birth control and I roll those dice.

Oh, except I can’t get pregnant by his finger or his tongue.

He’s sound asleep when I wake up, just as he was the last two mornings. I guess with these long hours, he uses every available second for sleep. I peek at the clock, see that it’ll probably be at least an hour before he wakes up.

I stare at him for longer than I should. He’s a giant, but he’d almost look harmless asleep. His pale skin and hair glow against his dark sheets, practically angelic. He’s scarred, though, lines and puckers I can’t help but assume are bullet wounds. On his pec is a deliberate scar, too. A brand in the shape of a ram’s head. A play on the Aries symbol, but I think it’s his family’s insignia. He has a couple tattoos, as well, but they’re small and on his back, out of sight for me to examine better now. But I’m curious about them.

I’m curious about him. Natural, I suppose, since I’m thinking about marrying him and I don’t know hardly anything about him.

I make a cup of coffee, give myself a few minutes to savor it before hopping in the shower so I can finally use my own toiletries to make myself feel more likemeagain, and dress in my favorite cropped sweater while I let my hair towel dry. From the cookbook, I find a recipe for pancakes and raid the kitchen for all the ingredients, just like Igor’s wife said in the note she left me.Make sure you have your ingredients before it’s too late to run to the store.

The recipe says it’s four servings, and after much internal conflict, I double it. I’ve already seen how much of my crock pot soup Vasily ate last night before storing the rest in a reusable container in the fridge, so I know now he’s basically four people on his own.

The water dances on the skillet just like the directions say when I pour the batter in, but it’s a good thing I made extra batter because the cooking spray burns and the first pancake has to be thrown out.

When I attempt to flip the second pancake, batter splatters halfway across the kitchen.

The third one looks nice, but then when I throw it on a plate, batter oozes out of it.

I might be a terrible cook. My soup came out good yesterday. I enjoyed it. It looks like Vasily enjoyed it, too. But these pancakes are not working. Are soup cooks a thing? Are some people only capable of cooking one thing, and my one thing is soup?

“Is too much pancake,zvyozdochka,” Vasily says from directly behind me. For such a big guy, I have no idea how he just snuck up on me, but the hand he rests over my stomach, gently pinning me to him, is the only thing keeping me from jumping and sending the pan straight into the air. “Too much hot.”

He holds me there between his body and the oven, warming my body on both sides, as he fiddles with the knobs and gives the batter a stir. He dunks his pinky in, licking it clean before I can stop him.

“There’s raw egg in that,” I say, but it’s too late.

“And no spice.”

“Kseniya says her husband cooks. Do you cook, too?”

“Da. Bachelor. Is cook, go poor at the McDonald, or starve. Kseniya also cook. All cook.”

He reaches above me, his broad chest and stomach rubbing against my back, to get into the spice cabinet that I need a chair to stand on to reach. I’m about to ask him to get some other stuff down for me — I really do want to figure this out, now that I know everyone in his world cooks, goes poor, or starves — but his body against mine does weird things to my head. I guess because of what’s happened between us, my body translates this as orgasm time whether I want it to or not.

I blurt out, “Why aren’t you having sex with me?” instead.

Vasily freezes, one hand still on my stomach while the other hand is in the air, reaching for the vanilla extract. He’s shirtless, his biceps tensed in this position and his breath warm on the crown of my head. After a long pause, he says, “Want now?”

“No, I don’t want now!” I squeal. “Or at all.”

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