I step back. Usually I know what to do when women get like this—leave, never look back—but with Camille, indecision grips me. The pain is too achingly clear in her face, in the tears she rubs at as though annoyed at herself for crying.

  “Maybe there was something more going on,” she whispers. “But now? I don’t know, Erik. I’m a fucking idiot. I was really starting to trust you. Can you believe that?”

  “You can still trust me,” I say. “I did what I did to protect you.”

  “Can you just go?” She falls onto the bed and curls her knees to her chest. “I need to be alone. Like, leave me the hell alone. I can’t talk to you like this. I can’t look at you like this. I’m afraid of what I’ll do.”

  She has her back to me.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and raise my hand to place on her shoulder. Suddenly I wish I could reverse time and kill tonight’s plan before it ever entered my mind. I thought it would give me a tactical advantage, but all it has accomplished is making me even less certain.

  “Camille …”

  “Don’t, Erik. Just don’t.”

  “You cannot speak with that detective again,” I say. “Do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes-fucking-sir. Any other requests? You tell me to jump, and I ask ‘How high’? Put a collar on me and I’ll bark on command? Just leave me alone, goddammit. I need to calm down.” She laughs bitterly. “Men … you, Rob, my fucking deadbeat dad, you’re all the same.”

  I go to the door, pausing to look at her one last time.

  Her shoulders are trembling, but her sobs are silent. I picture myself walking across the room and kneeling down beside her, stroking my thumb over her tear-wet cheeks and whispering: I am so sorry. I will never betray you like that again. I love you, Camille. I just couldn’t let it pass. It’s dangerous for a man in my line of work.

  Maybe she would collapse into my arms and cry herself out. We could rebuild the bridge.

  Instead, I leave the room and walk down the hallway, hating myself more with every step.

  McCauley is emerging from the room opposite—the library—glancing around like an intruder.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” I growl.

  “I was looking for the bathroom,” he mutters.

  “Of course,” I laugh. The urge to slam his head against the wall until his body goes limp almost overpowers me. Tonight has been a disaster. “I think it’s time you left, Detective. Dinner is done. Be a good public servant and give Bethany a ride home.”

  I follow them both to the door and then slam it behind them. Ashley is standing behind me when I turn, a silver platter of escargots in hand.

  “Ran when they heard about the snails?” she says with a half-smile. “Erik, what were you thinking?”

  “Perhaps I wasn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I am sorry your efforts have gone to waste.”

  I push past her and head up to my study, meaning to drown myself in vodka until I forget the whole night.

  My cell phone rings after my first glass.

  “Fyodor,” I say, answering.

  “Erik, it is nothing to worry about, but—”

  I clench my hand on the phone, nearly breaking it. If my second tells me it is nothing to worry about, then I know I should be worried.

  “A few of Damir’s friends stepped out of line with the Aryan Pact. I had to deal with them, you understand. We painted them red and sent them on a long holiday.”

  Again, he has acted without my permission.

  Everything is spinning out of control.

  I move my finger around the edge of the glass, but even that does not center me. I feel adrift.

  “It seems it is done, then,” I bark. “Is there anything else?”

  “No,” he replies.

  I hang up and toss back another glass of vodka.

  18

  Camille

  I sit in the study Erik built for me, trying to focus on my nursing textbook. But the words keep morphing.

  ‘Bacteroid’ becomes ‘betrayal.’

  ‘Hapten’ shifts into ‘hate.’

  ‘Ectomy’ morphs into ‘escape.’

  I pace around the room for a long time, hands worrying at each other. The tears have dried now and the constant drum-beating of my heart has stopped. I find myself thinking of explanations for Erik. More like fucking excuses. But still, they surface despite the anger.

  I wander over to the anatomy model and prod at the heart.

  Maybe Erik hired Bethany before we got to know each other. Maybe Bethany really does see me as a friend. Maybe, maybe … there are too many maybes and not enough answers.

  I replay the scene in the bedroom, thinking that I could’ve acted a bit more grown-up. I went a little high-school drama on him there, but I couldn’t help it.

  I should leave Erik, I reflect—so many women in my position would—but something stops me.

  Every other time in my life when I’ve thought about running, preferably to somewhere hot and sunny with a never-ending supply of cocktails, I’ve always thought about my family first. How would Mom feel if I abandoned her? How would Rob deal with his constant fuck-ups? Even at Dr. Delson’s office, I used to worry about how he would find a replacement.

  But now it’s my own feelings that give me pause.

  These past few days with Erik have been special. I can’t believe I just imagined that. We need to talk, air this out. Even if it does come to flipping him the bird and riding off into the sunset, surely we should have a civil conversation?

  Not that I know what he can say to make this right.

  But it’s a first step, I suppose.

  I leave the study and head out into the hallway to look for him, telling myself to be calm, rehearsing what I’ll say in my head so that I don’t freak out again.

  He’s nowhere to be found upstairs. When I head downstairs, I hear some noise coming from the kitchen: clattering followed by a short sigh.

  Ashley is standing over the food recycling bin, pushing a steak from a silver plate. She looks up when I enter, smiling, but I sense there’s something else going on behind her eyes. She looks all shifty.

  “Sorry you went to all that trouble,” I say.

  “Oh, it is not a bother,” she replies. “I’m paid regardless, so no harm done. But are you hungry? I could reheat those two.” She nods at plates sitting on the counter, covered with dishes. “It would be a shame if we wasted them. I got them fresh from the butcher’s today.”

  “Sure,” I tell her, though I’m not hungry. It’s the hope in her voice that convinces me. “Just a small one for me, thanks.”

  We sit at our usual table, Ashley cutting her steak into efficient chunks and then popping one into her mouth. She looks at me as she chews, as though considering, as though she can read the frantic thoughts rushing through my head.

  “It sounds like you had quite the night,” she says. “I heard pieces of it already, but we can talk about it more, if you want.”

  I hesitate for a moment, but once I start, I find I can’t stop. It’s too much to keep it all bottled up.

  I end up telling her everything, from Bethany’s betrayal all the way through to the argument in the bedroom. Ashley listens without the tiniest sign of surprise, which seems pretty damn strange for a chef. She nods as though that’s just typical Erik.

  “Hmm,” she murmurs.

  “What?”

  “I am just thinking, you know, maybe it is not as simple as you’re making it seem.”

  I laugh, taken aback.

  “It’s anything but simple, believe me.”

  “But you are painting Erik as the villain. You clearly judge him for buying a virgin, but have you ever considered what he thinks about you for selling your virginity?”

  Now this is really getting weird. Since when does Ashley know about the virginity auction, and why would she? The last time I checked, virgins, as a rule, don’t have special dietary requirements that would out me.

  “I was desperate,” I snap. “What else was I supposed to do? My mom could be dead right now if I hadn’t acted. I don’t see how you can compare them.”

  “And he was not desperate?” she says, not unkindly. “Erik was attacked by a man he trusted. He has been under a lot of stress trying to keep his business from collapsing around him. His uncle, the man who raised him, advised him to seek an heir to secure his position. Even now, he is constantly under threat.”

  She speaks with too much confidence, like she’s Erik’s fucking confidant.

  “Well, it seems like you know him way better than me. You’re pretty damn good at making excuses for him.”

  “He deserves excuses as much as you do,” she says. “Life is not easy for a man in his position.”

  “And what? It is for me?” I lean forward. “You know what, Ashley, you two seem too fucking cozy for my liking. Is he banging you on the side, is that it? Did he buy you at an auction? Jesus, you’re institutionalized!”

  She grips her belly and laughs loudly, throwing her head back.

  “Me and Erik?” She shakes her head. “Oh, Camille … that really is too much!”

  I jump to my feet, my cutlery clattering on the plate.

  “Oh, please don’t get upset!” Ashley cries.

  “I’m not upset,” I lie, striding for the door.

  I pace around the study, my self-imposed prison.

  But I have plenty to keep me busy: twisting my hands together, obsessing about what I’ll say to Erik, mentally counting the steps of the driveway to plot my escape.

  Erik has turned into a ghost, nowhere to be seen.

  The more I stay here, looking over all the expensive things he’s bought me, the more acrobatic flips my mind does to make excuses for him.

  Love … what a silly word that is in my situation.

  I can’t love somebody who purchased me, any more than a can of beans can love somebody who buys it from the grocery store. I’m an item to him, nothing more. I should come with a fucking receipt.

  I think about calling Mom and venting to her, since she’s my only remaining friend now. But what will I say?

  “Hey, Mom, I know you think I’m over here sprucing up the living room, and I know you’ve got one of the worst diseases a person can have, but I’m having some relationship problems. Care to lend an ear?”

  I make another circuit of the mansion, pausing dead-still outside Erik’s room when I hear his voice.

  I put my hand over my mouth to kill any noise.

  “The Ruble,” he’s saying, almost too quiet to hear. I press my face against the door. “2:00 a.m., yes, fine. No, no, keep them there. I will handle it. Yes, Uncle, do not worry. They will learn their lesson.”

  My blood chills.

  What sort of ‘lesson’ is he going to teach? I’m pretty damn sure it isn’t algebra. I try to envision Erik standing at the front of a class—another mental backflip—but of course it’s something much worse. He might beat a man to death tonight. He might return home with blood under his fingernails, in his hair, splattered on his shirt like that time I caught him burning one.

  I retreat to my bedroom and wait for 2 a.m. to come and go. Listening intently, I hear the click of the front door closing.

  That’s the last straw.

  I’m not going to hang around here like a princess trapped in a tower. After everything that’s happened tonight, this might be my last chance to get out. If Erik is intent on playing games, let’s try hide-and-seek.

  I go into my bedroom and grab my bag from the floor. I don’t pack anything that Erik gave me, just the clothes I brought here. I’m not about to be labeled a thief as well as a runaway.

  I shoulder the bag and take one last look around the guest bedroom: the bed well-made by Adrian, the large window overlooking the front lawn, the frankly absurd desk sitting in the corner.

  It’s a room I never could’ve dreamed of growing up, spending whole afternoons daydreaming about what it would be like to have a little foldaway desk and a nook for organizing homework.

  “You’ll have a bigger room one day, I promise,” Mom said one night, the shame that she couldn’t provide lending a sour twist to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I wish I could give you more.”

  Of course I told her it was more than enough. I ended up studying on the floor, using an upturned tray to rest my notebooks on, legs splayed either side. I knew I’d gotten a good studying session in when my lower back started to throb.

  But at least Mom wasn’t a criminal, I remind myself, as I stalk through the mansion.

  Everything is quiet, my footsteps making catlike whining noises in the silence. I wince at each one. I end up dancing around like a ballerina on my tiptoes until I come to the front door.

  That joins the creaky club as well. Then it’s open, and cool night air brushes against my sweaty upper lip.

  I walk into the night.

  “Miss Greene.”

  A man emerges from the shadows, hard-faced and hard-eyed. He’s dressed all in black and moves in front of me, as massive as a vending machine.

  “Mr. Ivanovich would prefer if you took some rest this evening. It has been a long day for everybody and he is concerned for you. If you would like to take some air, please make full use of the rear garden.”

  I bite down, feeling like a bird fluttering against cage bars, wings snagging. So much for a self-imposed prison.

  “You can’t just keep me here,” I say, making to step around him.

  He shimmies to the side to cut me off, an unmovable object.

  “Please,” he says easily. “I have strict instructions.”

  “What if I just ran?” I snap. “Would you tackle me? Come on, let’s try it. I’ve always wanted to be in the NFL.”

  He smiles like a Scout leader at an enthusiastic child. Oh look, the little fella’s got a whole lot of chutzpah.

  “That will not be necessary,” he says. “You have everything you need here. Unless … is there something you would like me to send for?”

  A man who knows how to respect a woman would be nice. I can tell that he’s going to keep up this I’m-here-to-help customer service shit.

  “No, just fucking forget it.” I scowl.

  I turn around, making a noise somewhere between a snake and a wolverine, and then march back into house. Going upstairs, I scan the perimeter military-style. Men stand at all the exits ready to cart me back into the house.

  I return to the bedroom and slump down, closing my eyes as tension works its way through my body. Then I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

  And I scream.

  I scream so that the veins in my neck bulge and my chest trembles. I batter the bed with my fists, stunned that I’ve been able to keep myself composed up until now.

  Have I been living in a dream world, twisting Erik into something he’s not?

  It’s true, I knew the arrangement. But there’s a big difference between agreeing to put my head in a noose and standing on the gallows, the crowd screaming for blood, trapped with only one way out.

  I roll over, laughing at myself.

  So, okay, that’s a little dramatic. Erik doesn’t want to kill me.

  No, he just wants to turn me into a puppet.

  Dance when he says dance

  Smile when he says smile.

  Fuck when he orders me to fuck.

  19

  Erik

  For the next two days I avoid the mansion, though some distant part of me notes that I am really avoiding myself.

  If I look at Camille, I will be forced to see the pain there. Perhaps that will awaken some feeling in me. I cannot allow that right now, not with the storm quietly tearing its way through the Bratva.

  Fyodor is at the heart of the storm, a thunderous motherfucker who wants to chip away at the foundations until the whole thing comes crumbling down. Then he can rebuild it, with himself as the figurehead.

  But I can’t avoid the confrontation forever. I have a meeting with Anatoly and Fyodor, ostensibly to discuss the men who have been stepping out of line, really so that I can study Fyodor the same way I studied Camille at dinner.

  She lied to me, I remind myself as I walk into the kitchen. She may not have told McCauley anything of use—I would be in a jail cell if that were the case—but she still betrayed my trust.

  I find Ashley in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, cursing under her breath.

  “Nothing sticks like bacon grease,” she growls. “They never teach you that in culinary school.”

  I smile, leaning against the door. “It saves you money on a gym membership, at least.”

  “Oh, life’s small victories. You are going to ask me to prepare mushroom caviar, I assume?”

  I nod. “Anatoly would be distraught if we served anything else.”

  I am about to leave when she clears her throat and turns to me.

  “What?” I growl.

  “You know,” she begins, “Camille has not left her room for two days.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “Not physically,” she says. “But, Erik, you have to talk to her. You have to try and see things from her point of view. She’s alone, she’s trapped … she has no one to turn to, except her mother and you won’t let her see her.”

  I wave a hand. “She will get over it in time. Is there anything else?”

  “Erik!” she snaps, tossing the pan into the sink. Soap suds fly into the air. “The longer you leave it, the worse it will get. She is not going to get less upset with you sitting up there going over and over it. Why not just talk to her?”

  “You know what I’m dealing with,” I tell her. “I have the detective trying to take my head off at every opportunity. If he does not get me, Fyodor and his dogs surely will. The Bratva is one step from ruin and here you are … what, Ashley? Playing at therapy. You should start one of those talk shows Americans are so fond of.”

  She smiles cuttingly. “We are American, you jerk. Stop—”

  “Stop what?” I snarl.

  “Acting!” she breaks out. “I know, and you know how much you care about Camille. You cannot tell me you’re happy with this arrangement.”

 

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