Page 38 of The Pakhan's Bride
When I open them again, the garage is empty. With a little sigh, I go ahead with other affairs of the day. A meeting with the estate steward to review the supply chain for yet another gala. A discreet check on the catering order that's being rerouted through a shell company in Kemerovo, something about optics, always optics. I sign off on new guest protocols for the Bratva wives' charity event next month. I veto the flower arrangements.
By noon, I'm seated beside Valya Morozova, wife of a mid-tier captain, exchanging pleasantries over cardamom tea while we pretend not to measure each other's allegiance. She offers gossip like sugar cubes, and I pretend to nibble. When I excuse myself, she rises a little too quickly, and I know I've won that round.
Later, I sit for a portfolio review with the security chief, pretending to care which sectors need heatmapping first. My signature is now shorthand for consent. I wear it like a crown.Next, I'm in the main receiving hall, listening to a trade emissary drone about cross-border tariffs while the men discuss weapons disguised as medical aid. I nod where expected, smile where deadly.
But nothing compares to what I saw in the garage. That moment—the grease on his wrist, the silent command of space—stays with me like a bruise that won't bloom. I had always known Konstantin was dangerous. I had not known he was that beautiful in his violence. Watching him work, I felt something coil tighter inside me. It was hunger, yes, but for what, I'm not yet sure. Power, maybe. His power, his… love? Validation? I shudder at the thought.
I escape to the lower veranda, a slab of heated concrete with a view of the garden and the pond. I sip black tea, extra lemon, and let the bitterness root in the back of my mouth. Lev is back from school and out in the yard, hunched over a bare patch near the pond's edge. He's in his second set of clothes for the day, first outfit soaked through by the snow, second already smeared with dirt and grass stains. He ignores the chill, focused on his task—stacking pebbles into towers, each one slightly higher than the last.
The first tower collapses at three stones. The second lasts for five before tilting into the snow. The third stands for a moment, fragile and improbable, then topples with a sound so faint I only notice because Lev clenches his fists in anger. He resets, gathers the scattered pebbles, starts over.
I envy his attention, the way he can lose himself in a world with no future and no history. I wonder if he knows how rare that is.
There's a shadow at the edge of my vision. Konstantin, coat unbuttoned, shoes crunching on the path. He moves like he owns the cold, like it's his currency. The holster under his coat isvisible, matte black against the white shirt. He doesn't see me or pretends not to.
He approaches Lev, crouches beside him. There's no hello, no performance for the camera. He simply sits, knees in the snow, and waits for Lev to notice him.
Lev does, after a minute. He hands Konstantin a pebble, then shows him the wobbly base of the tower, explaining with his hands why it keeps falling. Konstantin listens, really listens, then takes a stone and sets it with surgical precision. He glances at Lev, who nods approval. Together they stack, alternating, unhurried. After a few tries, they make it to six stones before it collapses. Both of them laugh, the sound rising in two registers—childish and adult, innocent and ruined.
When they finally build a tower that stands, Lev claps his hands, grinning so hard it looks painful. He throws his arms around Konstantin's neck, buries his face in the crook of his shoulder. Konstantin stays still, lets the boy hang on, one gloved hand resting gently on Lev's back.
He doesn't look up at the house, doesn't check the windows or the balcony. He holds Lev until the boy lets go. Then they build another tower, and another.
I finish my tea, throat tight. I want to scream at them, or join them, or break every window in the house just to see if they'd notice. Instead, I sit perfectly still.
At dusk, Lev is herded inside, pink-cheeked and steaming with energy. He bolts for the bath, leaving a trail of muddy footprints. I linger on the veranda until the cold works its way through the wool of my coat, into the skin. Only then do I go inside, head straight for my rooms, and lock the door.
The night brings vivid dreams. I am back in Paris, the hotel room. The sheets are cotton, rough against my skin. He is faceless, a shadow with warm hands and a low, patient voice. He pours red wine over my collarbone, licks it off, calls melittle winter. We fight, we fuck, we laugh, always on the edge of hunger and hate. When I wake, my throat is raw, my arms wrapped around a pillow that isn't my husband. The room is still, and the only sound is my own breath. But then I hear it, soft as a prayer—"You always did sleep like a princess."
Ekaterina's voice, clear as day, from the foot of the bed. I roll over, heart in my mouth.
15
ZOYA
Ekaterina stands at the foot of my bed. The sight is so unreal my mind lags, like a streaming video with bad signal. There are two security guards with her with their hands folded in front, eyes somewhere over my head. She's covered in a thick coat, her hair pulled back in a makeshift knot, not a single strand out of place. There's a bruise on her temple, yellowing at the edges, and her jaw is tight with something she wants to control but can't. She says my name, the old way, three syllables—Zoya, like the beginning of a spell.
I stare, waiting for the hallucination to blink out. She is thinner than before, her cheekbones knife-edged, but the eyes are the same. I have spent years mourning those eyes. "Get out," I say to the guards. My voice is shredded.
The left-hand man glances at Ekaterina. She flicks a finger in dismissal, and they vanish, door closing with the soft click of insulation. I sit up, hair tangled, no makeup, sweater bunched at my ribs. Ekaterina takes two steps forward. Her face is blank, a white wall waiting for graffiti. "You're not dead," I say.
She almost smiles. "Neither are you."
I want to leap from the bed and punch her, or hug her, or scream. Instead, I wrap the sheet around myself, burrito-tight, and say, "What do you want?"
She sits on the edge of the mattress, careful not to touch me. For a second, it's like we're teenagers again. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twined so tightly the knuckles glow. "I came an hour ago," she says, her voice almost level. "I told your husband everything. He decided I was not a threat."
I bark a laugh. "That's optimism."
She shrugs. "He has your talent for calculation."
I study her face. There are new lines at the corners of her eyes, and the skin under her chin is raw from a hasty shave with a cheap blade. "Is Galina?—"
"She's alive. She got me out," I say. "We lost each other after. I thought you—" I stop. I don't want to say it.
Ekaterina shakes her head, just once. "I watched the house burn from the marsh. I waited until the dogs gave up, then I followed the tracks north. There was a safehouse in Smolensk. I stayed there. When men came, I hid. When they left, I ate what they left behind."
I watch the way she looks at the wall, never at me. I ask, "How did you find me?"
