Dan’s face goes white, red, and back to white, all in the span of five seconds. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My smile widens. “Don’t you?”
Fuck, this is fun. Why haven’t I done this sooner? Why did I decide that my only options were to tell my family and risk Dan’s life, or to tolerate his lecherous looks and gross little touches? There was always a third option, and now that I’ve realized that, I feel a ton lighter. I suppose I should thank Alexei for showing me the power of fear.
If I hadn’t seen Dan stuttering and scared shitless at the mere thought that he might’ve been seen touching me, it would’ve taken me way longer to realize that I can threaten him into doing—or not doing—whatever I want.
Sure enough, my tutor swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I-I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
No, it won’t. I’ve made sure of that.
* * *
The next day,I find myself almost looking forward to my English lesson. After our little chat, Dan had kept his hands and eyes to himself, to the point that I had to call his name to get him to look my way—and even then, he was all pale and prone to stuttering.
I like it. I like it a lot. This must be what it feels like to have power, to know that you’re the one in control. It’s a new experience for me. All my life, I’ve been told what to do, what to wear, where to go to school, and how to act. My parents, my teachers, my brothers—they all have power and authority over me. So did Dan, up until yesterday. Maybe that’s why it didn’t occur to me that I could do something to change our dynamic on my own, without relying on my father or brothers.
I all but dance to the library when it’s time for the lesson. On the agenda today is the Oxford comma—and testing the limits of my newfound power over Dan. To that end, I’ve omitted my usual baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants in favor of a pair of skinny jeans and a tight V-neck shirt. It’s not exactly a fancy designer dress of the kind Mama likes me to wear, but I look good. I’m even wearing a light layer of makeup, which she’d approve of.
I want Dan to be tempted to stare but be too afraid to do it. It’s my little revenge on him for all those times when I felt like I needed to shower after our lessons.
I must be early for once because Dan isn’t in the library when I enter. I wait a few minutes, glancing at the clock every so often, but he doesn’t appear.
Huh. Maybe I scared him off for good?
I give it another ten minutes, and then I go in search of my mom.
I find her in the kitchen, fighting with Papa over something. Hearing their voices, I stop before entering and listen, in case I’m walking in on something major. But no. They’re arguing about tonight’s menu, it seems. That’s not too bad. Or maybe it is. They fight over everything these days. Each time I come home after being away at school, I find them even more at each other’s throats. The sad part is I’m pretty sure they love each other, or at least Papa loves Mama. I often see him looking at her like he’d like to chain her to his side. Then again, maybe that’s not love. At least not the kind they write about in books and portray in movies. It’s more like he can’t live without her, and there’s a part of him that hates that fact—and her. As for Mama, I can’t decide if she actually hates him, or if it’s all part of some cruel game they’re playing. Sometimes, I catchherlooking at him like he’s her entire world, but other times, I’m almost certain she wishes him dead.
Yeah, my family is lovely. All nice and normal and sweet.
The argument in the kitchen seems to be dying down, so I decide to risk it. Rounding the corner behind which I’ve been hiding, I call out, “Mama? Did Dan say anything about cancelling our lesson today?” Stopping by the kitchen island, I blink exaggeratedly. “Oh, hi, Papa. Didn’t know you were there.”
Someone give me an Oscar.
Pavel, our chef who’s also our housekeeper, occasional bodyguard, and even more occasional enforcer, shoots me a sidelong glance from the counter where he’s chopping up vegetables for dinner. He’s not fooled. He probably heard me coming before I even exited the library.
I give him a bright smile. Pavel is my favorite person here—at least if I exclude Konstantin. Actually, my oldest brother no longer resides with us, so I don’t need to qualify that statement. Pavel is former military—he served with Papa long before I was born, in fact—and he still has all the habits and mannerisms he picked up in the army. He runs our household like a drill sergeant, with set mealtimes and so on. He’s also the size of a small truck, has a face that resembles a battered brick, and seems to possess all the emotions of a machine. But that last bit is a façade. I’ll never forget all the times he bandaged my scraped knees when I was a kid, nor all the treats he snuck up to my room when I was upset over something.
I think of him as my giant, not-so-cuddly teddy bear… who can kill on command.
“Alinochka, you look so nice,” Mama exclaims, giving my outfit an approving once-over. “Is that shirt new?”
Papa glares at her. “All her clothes are new, just like yours. None of you wear perfectly good shit twice.”
Well, he’s in a mood. I can hear the unspoken “ungrateful bitches” after that “you.” I used to wonder why Mama doesn’t just leave him, but now that I’m older, I understand that she can’t. Even if they didn’t have this messed-up love-hate connection, it’s not up to her.
He wouldn’t let her go.
“Don’t you dare use that kind of language around our daughter,” Mama hisses at him. “If she wants new clothes every day, she can fucking have them!”
Ugh. Here we go again. My shirt actually isn’t new—I’ve worn it a bunch of times at school—but anything I say in that regard will only add fuel to this shitstorm.
Papa opens his mouth, undoubtedly to light into her overherlanguage, so I say quickly, “Mama, I was asking about Dan. He hasn’t shown up for our lesson.”
She goes from glaring at Papa to frowning at me. “He hasn’t?”
“No. Did he say he couldn’t make it today?” I’m tempted to ask if he quit, but that could result in all sorts of uncomfortable questions.