Chapter 18: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 18

To my relief, lunch with the Molotovs is a much more casual affair than dinner. Well, Alina is still dressed like she’s at an upscale cocktail party, but Nikolai is wearing dark jeans with a white polo shirt, and nobody chides Slava for his shorts and T-shirt as we sit down at the table—which is again laden with all sorts of mouthwatering salads, cold cuts, and sides.

Do all Russians eat like czars, or just this family? If this is an every-meal thing, I have no idea how they’re not fat. I’m still full, having had breakfast only a couple of hours ago, but there’s no way I’m not going to gorge myself on this spread.

Everything looks so freaking good.

“How was your first night with us, Chloe?” Alina asks when we’ve all filled our plates. “Did you sleep well?”

I smile at her, relieved both by the innocuous question and the friendly tone. I was afraid she might still be mad at me after this morning’s incident. “I slept very well, thank you.” And it’s true—the nightmare aside, it was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.

“That’s good,” Alina says, cutting into what looks like a fancy deviled egg. “I thought I heard something from your room around three, but it must’ve been my brother returning from one of his middle-of-the-night runs.” She shoots Nikolai a sidelong glance, and I busy myself with the food on my plate, grateful for the explanation.

I must’ve screamed out loud last night. That, or Alina heard me fall out of bed.

“I did go for a run,” Nikolai says, “so that must’ve been it.” When I look up, however, his gaze is trained on me, studying me with an unreadable expression.

Does he suspect something?

God, I hope he didn’t hear me scream or fall.

Fighting the urge to squirm in my seat, I lower my gaze—and freeze, staring at his hands. He’s holding a knife in one and a fork in the other, European style, but that’s not what draws my attention.

It’s his knuckles. They’re red and swollen, as if he’s been in a fistfight.

My pulse spikes as I look away, then sneak another look at his hands.

Yep. I didn’t imagine it. Nikolai’s knuckles are a mess. In general, his big, masculine hands look like they’ve seen a lot of action, with calluses on the edges of his thumbs and faded scars in a few places. Even his short, neatly groomed nails can’t hide the truth.

These aren’t the hands of a wealthy playboy. They belong to a man intimately acquainted with either hard manual labor or violence.

The suspicions I’d all but suppressed return, and this time, I can’t pretend they’re baseless. Something about the Molotovs unnerves me. Who are they? Why are they here? I can see a rich foreign family spending a couple of weeks in a place like this as a “nature detox,” but to actually move here? Someone as glamorous as Alina belongs in Paris or Milan or New York, not a corner of Idaho where there are more bears than people. Same goes for Nikolai, with his smooth, cosmopolitan manners and insistence on Downton Abbey attire at dinner.

My new employers are the very epitome of the jet set—at least if one ignores Nikolai’s street brawler hands.

I force myself to look away from those angry-looking knuckles and focus on the child next to me, who’s again eating calmly and quietly. Disconcertingly so, I realize. What four- or five-year-old doesn’t play at least a little with his food? Or demand adult attention on occasion? I know the boy can smile and laugh and play like any other child his age, so why does he turn into a kid-sized robot at mealtimes?

Feeling my gaze on him, Slava looks up, his big golden-green eyes strikingly solemn. I smile at him brightly, but he doesn’t smile back. He just refocuses on his plate and resumes eating. I eat as well, but I continue watching him, my sense of wrongness intensifying by the second. There’s something unnatural about my student’s behavior, something deeply concerning. Maybe the boy is more traumatized by his mother’s death than he seems on the surface, or maybe something else is going on… something far worse.

I steal another glance at Nikolai’s knuckles, a horrible thought slithering into my mind.

To my infinite relief, the injuries look fresh, as if he’s just pounded something or someone into the ground. Since Slava’s been with me all morning, he couldn’t have been that someone. Besides, only an impact of great force could’ve caused those types of contusions, and there’s nothing about the way Nikolai’s son is sitting or moving that would indicate he’s been beaten so severely—or at all.

Whatever my employer is guilty of, it’s not child abuse, thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if that were the case. No, scratch that. I know. I’d call Child Protective Services and run, taking my chances with my mom’s killers.

Which reminds me: I still don’t have my car keys.

I’m about to ask Nikolai about them when Alina smiles at me and asks, “Have you always wanted to be a teacher, Chloe?”

I nod, setting down my fork. “Pretty much. I’ve always loved both children and teaching. Even as a child, I’d often play with kids younger than myself so I could cast myself in the role of their instructor.” I grin, shaking my head. “I think I just liked having them look up to me. Stroked my ego and all that.”

As I speak, I’m cognizant of Nikolai’s eyes on me, intent and unwavering. A predator’s stare, filled with both hunger and infinite patience. My skin burns under its weight, and it takes everything I have to keep my gaze on Alina and pick up my fork as if nothing is happening.

She asks about my choice of college next, and I tell her how I was lucky enough to get a full-ride scholarship there.

“I’d never even thought about applying to such an expensive school,” I say between bites of delicious smoked fish and richly flavored beet salad. It helps if I concentrate on the food instead of the man staring at me. “My mom worked as a waitress, and money was tight for as long as I can recall. I was going to go to community college, then transfer to a state school, using a combination of scholarships, loans, and work-study to pay my way through. But just as I started my senior year of high school, I got an invitation to apply for this special scholarship program at Middlebury. It was for children of low-income single parents, and it covered one hundred percent of tuition, room, and board, in addition to providing an allowance for books and miscellaneous expenses. Naturally, I applied—and somehow got in.”

“Why somehow?” Nikolai asks. “Weren’t you a good student?”

I have no choice but to meet his penetrating stare. “I was, but there were students in my circumstances who were far more qualified and didn’t get it.” Like my friend Tanisha, who’d gotten a perfect score on her SATs and graduated as our class valedictorian. I told her about the scholarship, and she applied to the program as well, only to be instantly rejected. To this day, I wonder why they chose me and not her; if it was a matter of surviving adversity, Tanisha had a “better” story, with her partially disabled mother raising not one but three children on her own, one of them—Tanisha’s younger brother—with special needs.

“Maybe they saw something in you,” Nikolai says, his eyes tracing over every inch of my face. “Something that intrigued them.”

I shrug, trying to ignore the heat coursing under my skin. “Could be. More likely, though, it was just dumb luck.” It had to have been, because a couple of months later, Tanisha got acceptance letters from every school she’d applied to, including Harvard, which she ended up attending thanks to a generous financial aid package. Not as generous as the scholarship I got—she graduated with seventy thousand dollars in student loans—but good enough that I stopped feeling guilty about taking the spot that should’ve been hers.

Being a nice person, she’s never acted anything but happy for me, but I know how much the scholarship committee’s rejection devastated her.

“I don’t think it was dumb luck,” Nikolai says softly. “I think you’re underestimating your appeal.”

Oh God. My heart rate jacks up, my face burning impossibly hotter as Alina stiffens, her gaze bouncing between me and her brother. There’s no mistaking his meaning, no waving it off as a casual compliment about my scholastic abilities, and she knows it as well as I do.

Still, I try. Pretending like it’s all a joke, I grin widely. “That’s very nice of you to say. What about you two? Where did you go to school?”

There. Change of topic. I’m proud of myself until I realize that if, for some reason, either of the siblings didn’t go to college, my question could offend them.

Thankfully, Alina doesn’t bat an eye. “I went to Columbia, and Kolya finished Princeton.” She’s composed again, her manner friendly and polite. “Our father wanted us to attend college in America; he thought it provided the best opportunities.”

“Is that why you speak English so well?” I ask, and she nods.

“That, and we both attended boarding school here as well.”

“Oh, that explains the lack of accent. I’ve been wondering how you both managed not to have it.”

“We also had American tutors back in Russia,” Nikolai says, a mocking half-smile playing on his lips. Clearly, he knows I’m trying to diffuse the tension, and he finds my efforts amusing. “Don’t forget that, Alinchik.”

His sister stiffens again for some reason, and I busy myself with clearing the rest of my plate. I have no idea what landmine I’ve stepped on, but I know better than to proceed with this topic. As I’m finishing up my food, I glance over at Slava and find him done as well.

“Would you like some more?” I ask, smiling as I gesture at his empty plate.

He blinks up at me, and Alina says something in Russian, presumably translating my question.

He shakes his head, and I smile at him again before looking over the other adults at the table. To my relief, they appear to have finished also, with Nikolai just sitting back, watching me, and Alina gracefully patting her lips with a napkin. Miraculously, her red lipstick leaves no traces on the white cloth—though I probably shouldn’t be surprised, given that the bright color survived the entire meal without smearing or fading.

One of these days, I’m going to ask her to share her beauty secrets with me. I have a feeling Nikolai’s sister knows more about makeup and clothes than ten YouTube influencers combined.

I’m about to excuse myself and Slava so we can resume our lessons when Pavel and Lyudmila walk in. He’s carrying a tray with pretty little cups, a jar of honey, and a glass teapot filled with black tea. He sets it on the table while Lyudmila clears away the dishes.

“None for me, thank you,” I say when he places a cup in front of me. “I don’t drink tea.”

He gives me a look suggesting I’m little better than a wild animal, then whisks my cup away and pours tea for everyone else, my student included. The delicate china looks ridiculous in his massive hands, but he handles the task deftly, making me wonder if he worked in some high-end restaurant prior to joining the Molotov household.

“Thank you for a wonderful meal. Everything was delicious,” I tell him when he passes by me, but he just grunts in response, stacking the dishes that his wife didn’t get to in a carefully arranged pyramid on top of the tray before carrying them all away. It’s not until he’s gone that I remember something important.

I turn to Nikolai, my face warming again as I meet his tiger gaze. “I keep forgetting to ask… Did Pavel repark my car somewhere? I didn’t see it in front of the house. Also, I don’t think I ever got my car keys back.”

“Really? That’s odd.” Adding a spoonful of honey to his tea, Nikolai stirs the liquid. “I’ll ask him about that.” He hands the honey jar to Slava, who adds several spoonfuls into his cup—the boy must have a serious sweet tooth.

“That would be great, thank you,” I say, picking up my glass of plain water—the only liquid besides coffee I like to drink. “What about the car? Is there a garage or something nearby?”

“At the back of the house, just underneath the terrace,” Alina replies in her brother’s stead. “Pavel must’ve moved it there.”

“Okay, awesome.” I grin, inexplicably relieved. “I was half-afraid you guys decided it’s too much of an eyesore and pushed it into the ravine.”

Alina laughs at my joke, but Nikolai just smiles and sips his honey-sweetened tea, watching me with an inscrutable expression.