Chapter 19: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 19

The rest of the afternoon flies by. As soon as lunch is over, I find the garage—the entrance to it is at the back of the house, just past the laundry room—and verify that my car is indeed there, looking even older and rustier next to my employers’ sleek SUVs and convertibles. Then, since the weather is beautiful—low seventies and sunny—I take Slava for a hike in the forested portion of the estate rather than teaching him in his room. We tromp through a wildflower-filled meadow, climb down to a small lake we find about a half mile to the west, and chase a dozen squirrels into the trees. Well, Slava chases them, giggling maniacally; I just observe him with a smile.

He’s an entirely different boy out here than in the dining room with his family.

As we make our way through the woods, he chatters in Russian, and I reply in English whenever I can guess what he’s saying. I also make sure to give him English words for everything we encounter, and I do my best to learn the Russian words he teaches me.

“Belochka,” he says, pointing at a squirrel, only to break into giggles when I mangle the word in my attempt to repeat it. He, on the other hand, pronounces English words perfectly almost from the first try; I suspect he’s either been watching English-language cartoons or he has perfect pitch.

Musically inclined kids tend to master accents faster than their peers.

“Do you like music?” I ask as we’re returning home. I hum a few notes to demonstrate. “Or singing?” I do my best rendition of “Baby Shark,” which causes him to whoop in laughter.

In case there was any doubt, I’m not musically inclined.

As we approach the house, Pavel comes out to greet us, a fierce glower on his face. “Where were you? It’s almost five, and he hasn’t had his snack.”

“Oh, we were—”

“And your clothes have been delivered. They’re in your room.” Eyeing Slava’s dirty shoes with disapproval, he picks up the boy and carries him into the house, muttering something in Russian.

Chagrined, I take off my muddy sneakers and follow them in. I probably should’ve cleared our hike with Slava’s caretakers, or at least kept better track of time. I did bring a couple of apples for Slava to munch on if he got hungry—I grabbed them from the kitchen before leaving—but I guess that’s not as complete of a meal as the cheese-and-fruit tray Pavel brought up yesterday.

When I get to my room, I wash my hands and fix my bun; a bunch of fine strands have escaped the confinement and are framing my face in a messy halo. Then I head into my closet to check out the delivery.

Holy shit.

The walk-in closet—ninety-five-percent empty after I unpacked my suitcase—is now packed to the brim. And it’s not just the fancy gowns my employers mandate for dinner. There are jeans and yoga pants, tank tops and T-shirts and sweaters, casual sundresses and sleek pencil skirts, socks and pajamas and hats. And underwear, all kinds, from thongs to comfy cotton panties to sports bras and lacy push-up bras, all improbably in my size. There’s even outerwear—lots and lots of outwear, ranging from light rain jackets and sleek wool coats to puffy parkas that would withstand arctic weather.

It’s a closet for all seasons and all occasions, and judging by the tags, everything’s brand-new.

Stunned, I turn over a tag hanging from a soft-looking white sweater.

$395.

What the fuck?

I grab a tag from the nearest parka, a pretty blue one with a fur-lined hood.

€3.499. Made in Italy.

“You like?”

I give a start and spin around to face Alina, who’s standing at the entrance of the closet.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, flicking her glossy black hair over her shoulder. She’s already changed into another stunning gown, a red ankle-length piece with a thigh-high slit that shows a sliver of one long, toned leg. She’s also refreshed her makeup, extending the eyeliner to emphasize the feline quality of her tip-tilted eyes.

“I knocked, but no one answered,” she continues, “so I figured you were exploring your new things.”

“I was—I am.” I glance over my shoulder at the packed hangers and shelves. “Is that… all for me?”

“Of course. Who else would it be for? I don’t need any more, that’s for sure.” Strolling over to stand next to me, she pulls out a long yellow dress and holds it up to my chest, then hangs it up and pulls out a pale pink one.

“But it’s way too much,” I say as she holds the pink dress against me, only to reject it as well. “I don’t need all of this. A few dresses for dinner, sure, but the rest—”

“That’s my brother for you. Nikolai doesn’t do half measures.” She flips through the rest of the gowns with practiced speed and pulls out a shimmery peach number. Versace, the label on it states, and there’s no price tag in sight—probably because the amount would be scary. Holding it up against me, Alina gives a satisfied nod. “Try this on.” She thrusts it into my arms.

“Right now?”

She arches her eyebrows. “I can turn away if you’re shy.” Matching action to words, she gives me her back.

Suppressing an exasperated sigh, I quickly scramble out of my clothes and into the dress—which somehow fits perfectly, the gold-speckled peach chiffon draping over my body with stunning elegance. The A-line skirt falls gracefully to my feet, and the square-cut bodice has a built-in bra that lifts my modest B cups, giving me a hint of cleavage. The wide straps conceal my shoulders, but my arms and the upper portion of my back are left bare, exposing the scabs from where the shards of glass pierced my skin.

Dammit. I was hoping to avoid showing those until they’ve healed.

“Ready?” Alina sounds impatient.

“Just one sec.” I twist my arm behind my back, trying to get the zipper all the way up. “Actually, do you think you could…?”

“Of course.” She zips me up and steps back to give me a once-over. Instantly, her gaze homes in on the scabs. “What happened here?” she asks, a tiny frown creasing her smooth brow.

“It’s nothing.” I grimace, as if embarrassed by my clumsiness. “I tripped and fell on some broken glass.”

The explanation must satisfy her because she lets it go and resumes her perusal. “Very nice,” she finally declares. “But that bun has to go.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay—”

“Come.” Grabbing my hand, she drags me out of the closet and into the bathroom, where she makes me stand in front of the mirror. “See? You need to wear your hair down with this. Also, makeup is a must.”

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, messy bun, dark circles, and all. She’s right. A dress this glamorous deserves the works. Unfortunately, I only have a tube of lip gloss with me, having trashed the majority of the items in my makeup bag when I was clearing out my dorm room after graduation. I figured I’d go shopping with Mom when I got home. She loved that sort of thing, and we always—

I stop that line of thought and inhale to clear the painful constriction in my chest. “I can take my hair down, but I don’t really have—”

“Yes, you do.” She pulls open one of the drawers next the sink, revealing a selection of tubes and bottles that would make a professional makeup artist proud. “I made sure Nikolai got all the necessities,” she explains.

“You helped him buy all this?”

“Who else?” She grins, revealing that perfectly imperfect little gap between her straight white teeth. “None of my brothers know mascara from lipliner.”

My ears perk up. “Brothers?”

She nods, reaching into the drawer. “There are four of us. I’m the youngest and the only girl.” She uncaps a foundation bottle and grabs my hand, turning it palm up. Smearing a streak of bronze color on my inner wrist, she eyes it critically, then opens a slightly more golden shade and tests that.

“Where are your other brothers?” I ask, watching her work in fascination. I did just think it might be nice to get a lesson from her one day, and here we are. I’ve always had trouble finding the right foundation; most drugstore brands offer shades that are either too light, too dark, or too ashy. But the second color Alina tries blends into my skin perfectly—she definitely knows what she’s doing.

“They’re both in Moscow,” she replies, capping the bottle. “Well, at this moment, Konstantin is on a business trip in Berlin, but you know what I mean.” She sets the bottle on the counter in front of me, along with mascara, eyeliner, and a bunch of other stuff, including an egg-shaped sponge that she wets under the faucet. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she asks, “Do you mind if I do your face? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

“No, please, go ahead.” I’m more than eager for her to continue. Beauty lesson aside, this is a chance for me to learn more about my mysterious employers without Nikolai’s darkly magnetic presence scrambling my brains.

“All right then, wash your face and come along.”

I do as she says while she sweeps all the makeup she laid out into a little silver case. After I pat my face dry and moisturize with a fancy-looking face cream I find in yet another drawer, she leads me back into the bedroom, where she stands me in front of the floor-to-ceiling window—natural light is best, she explains. Placing the makeup case on the nightstand nearby, she steps in front of me and, bending her head with a look of intense concentration, begins applying foundation with the damp sponge.

“You always want to pat, not rub,” she explains, dabbing at my cheeks. “The color blends in best that way.”

“Good to know, thank you.” I wait until she’s done with my chin before asking, “So what made you and Nikolai decide to come here? I imagine it must be a big change from Moscow.”

She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “Oh, it is. Moscow is… a whole other world.” Her red lips tilt up without humor. “Not always a nice world.”

“Oh?”

She resumes her careful dabbing. “It’s quiet here. Calm. And the nature is beautiful. Nikolai wanted that for his son.”

“So you’re here for Slava?”

“My brother is.” She frowns, studying my face, and uses the pointed end of the sponge to add a little foundation under my eyes. The dark circles must be bugging her. “Me, I just needed a break,” she continues as she moves on to the bridge of my nose, “a little timeout, if you will.”

“From life in Moscow?”

“Something like that. Close your eyes.”

I obey, silently digesting what I’ve learned as she sweeps eyeshadow onto my lids and applies mascara to my lashes. It makes sense that they’d be here for the boy—the timing of their move to this compound lines up with Nikolai’s learning of his son’s existence. And I suppose if quiet, calm nature is what you’re after, you can’t do much better than this place.

Still, something doesn’t smell right. I’m sure there are spots of wilderness untouched by civilization in Russia and other countries nearby. Why move halfway across the globe if pretty nature is all you’re after? The time difference alone must make it difficult to stay in touch with family, or conduct any type of business—assuming there is a business.

I wait until Alina is done tracing my lips with a pencil before opening my eyes to ask, “What do your brothers do, work-wise?”

“Oh, this and that.” She carefully applies lipstick, has me close my lips on a tissue to smudge off some of the color, and repeats the process two more times. Finally satisfied, she puts the lipstick away and picks up a little container of blush and a long-handled makeup brush. “Our family owns a bunch of companies in various sectors—energy, technology, real estate, pharmaceuticals,” she says, swiping the brush across the apples of my cheeks with quick, expert strokes. “Nikolai oversees it all… or he did until recently. When we learned about Slava, he handed over most of the responsibilities to Valery and Konstantin, so he could move here and spend time with his son.”

I stare at her in disbelief. Is she talking about the same Nikolai? The coolly distant father who barely interacts with his son? I can’t picture him leaving a business meeting early to be with Slava, much less stepping down as head of some major conglomerate.

I must be missing something. That or Slava is a convenient excuse for something shady.

“What about you?” I ask when she steps away and surveys her work with a critical eye. “Are you involved with the family business as well?”

She laughs, a light, trilling sound. “Oh, that’s not for me.” Taking half a step forward, she smooths my left eyebrow with her thumb. “Not bad,” she declares. “Now we just need to do your hair. Come.” Clasping my hand, she drags me back into the bathroom, where she takes out an entire array of styling products from another drawer while I gape at my reflection in the mirror.

I have never, ever looked this way before, not even when Mom shelled out fifty bucks to have my makeup professionally done for my high school prom.

The girl in the mirror is beyond pretty, her skin smooth and glowing, her brown eyes large and mysterious above delicately contoured cheekbones and soft, plump lips the color of dusky rose.

I don’t look like Alina, with her bright red lips and dramatic cat-eye makeup. In fact, I don’t look like I’m wearing makeup at all. Instead, it’s as if I’ve been Photoshopped, all my imperfections blurred and smoothed out.

“Wow.” I lift my hand to touch my face. “This is…”

Alina slaps my hand away. “Don’t touch, you’ll mess it up. In general, the less you touch your face, the better. You have nice, clear skin, but it’ll be even better if you keep your hands off it. The oil and dirt on our fingers clog the pores, causing them to look larger over time.”

“Right, okay.” Chastened, I keep my hands at my sides as she goes to work on my hair, first freeing it from the bun, then misting it with water and applying various styling products to tease out the wave in my otherwise-limp strands.

“There, all done,” she says after a few minutes. “Now you need shoes, and we’ll be all set.”

Oh, crap. “I don’t think I have any—” I begin, but she’s already walking out of the bathroom.

I follow and see her beeline for my closet. A second later, she emerges with a shoebox. Jimmy Choo, the logo on the box proclaims. Setting it down on the floor, she takes out a pair of strappy gold heels and hands them to me. “Try these.”

They bought me shoes as well? Stopping my brain from doing the math on the not-so-small fortune that must’ve been spent on my wardrobe, I put on the heels—like the dress, they fit perfectly—and walk over to the full-length mirror hanging next to the closet.

“How do they feel?” Alina asks, coming to stand next to me. To my surprise, she’s now only a couple of inches taller than I; those high heels she always wears have fooled me into thinking she possesses a model’s height.

I experimentally shift my weight from foot to foot. “Surprisingly comfortable.” Not as comfortable as my sneakers, obviously, but I can stand and walk in them better than in any dressy shoes I’ve worn before. Likewise, the peach gown doesn’t pinch or scratch anywhere; all the seams are smooth and soft against my skin, the silky inner lining pleasantly cool.

No wonder Alina is able to dress like a queen at all times. If all her clothes are of this quality, looking glamorous is nowhere near as big of an inconvenience as I imagined.

“You just need one more thing,” she says, smiling at my reflection. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She hurries out of the room, and I stay in front of the mirror, marveling at the way the shimmery gown drapes over my too-skinny body, giving the illusion of healthy curves.

I’ll never be as beautiful as Alina, but I’m definitely the best version of myself.

She returns a minute later with a small jewelry box in her hand. Setting it down on the nightstand, she opens it and takes out a pair of diamond studs and a heart-shaped pendant on a thin gold chain.

“Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly,” I say as she comes toward me, holding the jewelry. “That looks really expensive.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just a little trinket.” Ignoring my protests, she drapes the gold chain around my neck and locks it into place, then inserts the diamond studs into my ears. “There, now the outfit is complete.”

She steps back, and I turn to face the mirror again.

She’s right. The jewelry has added that final touch of polish, the heart-shaped diamond glittering an inch above the faint hint of cleavage created by the bodice of the dress. I look equal parts elegant and sexy, like a modern-day princess about to attend a ball.

If Mom saw me like this, she’d be so proud. She’d make me take a million pictures in dozens of different poses, and she’d set up the best ones as her screensaver and phone background, so she could show them off to her coworkers at the restaurant. She’d—

I blink the sting out of my eyes and turn back to face Alina. “Thank you,” I say, my voice only slightly strained. “I appreciate this.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Her green eyes gleam as she gives me a final once-over. “Let’s go down to dinner. I can’t wait for Nikolai to see you like this.”

And before I can wonder what she means, she heads out of the room, leaving me no choice but to follow.