She, too, would like to tear apart anyone who’s hurt Slava, I can tell.
With effort, I tamp down on my fury. Nature has already devised the most exquisite torture for Boris Leonov, and I have to be content with that. The only thing ordering a hit on Ksenia’s father would achieve is shortening his suffering and triggering an outright war between our families. Right now, we have, if not precisely a truce, then at least a détente: No blood has been spilled in a number of years, despite constant friction on both business and personal levels.
That will change if I kill Boris—or if they learn that I’m behind Slava’s kidnapping. They may harbor some suspicions on that front now—Alexei certainly dropped some hints during our encounter in Dushanbe—but they won’t act on those suspicions unless they’re sure. Not only because doing so would mean starting that war, but because if they’re wrong and I don’t know about Slava, their attack might clue me in, opening up the entire ugly, wriggling can of worms.
On my end, I’ve done my best to ensure that doubts are all they have. I left Russia three weeks before we extracted Slava from their compound, so the timelines wouldn’t match too closely, and Ksenia’s friend, the one who called me after finding the diary, has been relocated to New Zealand with a million dollars and a new identity—and a promise that should she contact any of the Leonovs to relay our conversation, her family in Russia would pay the price.
I don’t go into all those details with Chloe now. There’s no need; she can draw her own conclusions from what I’ve told her. Instead, I cover her hand with mine and say gravely, “Thank you, zaychik.” Her sympathy and her anger on Slava’s behalf cool my rage, the warmth from her small palm seeping into my skin despite the thick material of my jeans.
She swallows and pulls her hand back, averting her gaze. She’s afraid of this, I realize with a pang—afraid of emotional intimacy with me. It’s both disheartening and encouraging. Disheartening because I want us to be past this, to go back to the way things were before Alina’s revelations. And encouraging because it tells me there’s hope for us… that no matter how much she’d like to be repulsed and terrified by me, her feelings are more complex than that.
Reining in my frustration, I wait for her to look back at me, and when she does, I pick up the coffee and hand it to her. “Here, zaychik.” My tone is calm and bland. “You should drink this before it gets cold.”
I’ll let her hide from the truth for now, allow her to put up her shields and defenses. They won’t save her from me. Nothing will.
Whether she likes it or not, I will own her.
Heart, mind, body, and soul.
12
Chloe
Despite downing the full cup of coffee, I fall asleep right after lunch and nap until Nikolai brings me dinner. I think it’s the painkillers that make me so drowsy—that or my brain is using sleep as a way to process the most recent revelations while hiding from the anxiety-inducing unanswered questions.
They kidnapped Slava, stole him from his mother’s family. I suppose I should be shocked, but I’m not. I think I suspected something like that on some level; it was part of the wrongness I was picking up on, that unsettling vibe I kept getting from this family—especially my darkly mesmerizing captor.
I want to condemn his actions, but instead, I can’t help but applaud them. To extricate his son from a potentially abusive situation, Nikolai has completely upended his life, leaving his home country and giving up his role as the head of the Molotov conglomerate. Not every father would do that for his child, especially a child he didn’t know about.
A child he claims never to have wanted.
My chest squeezes as I recall that admission, thrown out so casually, so offhandedly, as if it doesn’t matter. He didn’t explain, didn’t go into details, but I could read between the lines.
It wasn’t a desire to live for himself, or travel, or prevent overpopulation—or any other reason people typically give for choosing not to have children. In Nikolai’s case, he didn’t want to be a father because he didn’t think he’d be a good one… and because he didn’t want his line to continue. There’s a part of my captor that despises himself, either because of what he’s done or what he is.
A Molotov.
I’ve been thinking about the story he told me, about his family’s history and the way he was raised. He didn’t say much about the latter, but his omissions were as telling as the details he did include. It was obvious that he was taught to view life as a never-ending battle for survival and dominance, a fight that only the most ruthless can win.