Chapter 24: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 24

Groaning, I roll over onto my back and throw an arm over my eyes to shield them from the sunlight. It took me hours to fall asleep after Nikolai left, and I feel like a total wreck. All I want to do is shut out the stupid sunlight and—

Wait, sunlight?

I jerk upright, squinting at the bright light streaming through the window.

Dammit.

Am I late to breakfast?

I cast a frantic glance around the room, but there’s no clock. There is, however, the TV hanging from the ceiling, and I spot a remote lying on top of my nightstand. I grab it and press the power button, hoping it’s not one of those complicated home theater setups that requires a computer science degree to operate.

The TV comes on, conveniently tuned to a news channel, and I exhale a relieved breath.

7:48 a.m.

If I hurry, I’ll make it downstairs in time.

I dash to the bathroom and speed through my morning routine, then beeline for my closet. The TV is still on, the newscaster droning on about the upcoming elections as I grab one of my new pairs of jeans and a soft-looking long-sleeved shirt, another new purchase. According to the informative blue strip on the bottom of the TV screen, the temperature is in the high fifties this morning, significantly cooler than yesterday. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to cover up those still-healing scabs on my arm—I saw Nikolai eyeing them last night.

I emerge from the closet fully dressed at 7:55 and, as a last-minute thought, grab the jewelry box with the pendant and earrings and slip it into my pocket, so I can return it to Alina. The news program is now showing a clip from last night’s presidential primary debates, in which one of the frontrunners, a popular California senator, is decimating his opponents with a barrage of cleverly worded facts and figures. I don’t really follow politics—my mom thought all politicians were the scum of the earth, and her opinions have rubbed off on me—but this guy, Tom Bransford, is prominent enough that I know who he is. At fifty-five years of age, he’s one of the youngest candidates in the presidential race, and is so good-looking and charismatic he’s been compared with John F. Kennedy. Not that he’s got anything on my employer.

If Nikolai ran for president, the entire female population of the United States would need a change of panties after each debate.

The time on the screen changes to 7:56, and I power off the TV. Maybe tonight I’ll have a chance to watch something, preferably a light, funny comedy. Nothing romantic, though—I need to take my mind off Nikolai and the confusing situation between us, not be reminded of it.

I don’t want another sleepless night where my body aches with arousal and my thoughts loop in an X-rated reel, replaying his dirty promises and the dark, heated images they conjure up.

To my surprise, Nikolai isn’t at the table when I get down there at 7:59 on the dot. His sister is, though, and so is Slava. The child gives me a bright grin that contrasts with Alina’s much cooler smile, and I smile back at them both, even though the thought of what Alina saw last night makes me want to slink away and never show my face in this house again.

“Good morning,” I say, taking my usual seat next to Slava. It’s tempting to avoid Alina’s gaze, but I’m determined not to give in to my embarrassment.

So what if she caught me making out with her brother? It’s not like I’m a governess in Victorian times who was seen canoodling with the lord of the manor.

“Good morning.” Alina’s tone is neutral, her expression carefully controlled. “Nikolai is on a call, so he won’t be joining us for breakfast.”

“Oh, okay.” I again experience that strange mixture of disappointment and relief, as if a hard test I’ve been studying for has been rescheduled. Though I’ve tried not to think about Nikolai this morning, I must’ve been subconsciously psyching myself up for seeing him here because I feel deflated despite the easing of the tension in my shoulders.

Slipping my hand into my pocket, I take out the little jewelry box and hand it to Alina. “Thank you for loaning me this last night.”

Her long black lashes sweep down as she takes it from me. “No problem. Some grechka?” she asks, gesturing at a pot of dark-colored grain sitting next to her. Breakfast here appears to be a much simpler affair, with only a jar of honey and a few platters of berries, nuts, and cut fruit accompanying the main dish.

Nodding gratefully, I hand Alina my bowl. “I’d love some, thank you.” I’m beyond happy she’s acting normally. Hopefully, it’ll continue.

When she hands the bowl back to me, I try a spoonful of the grain she called “grechka.” It turns out to be surprisingly flavorful, with a rich, nutty taste. Mimicking what Alina is doing, I add fresh berries and walnuts into my bowl and drizzle the whole thing with honey.

“It’s roasted buckwheat,” she explains as I dig in. “Back home, it’s usually eaten as a savory side, often mixed with some variation of pan-fried carrots, mushrooms, and onions. But I like it this way, more like oatmeal.”

“I think it’s tastier than oatmeal.”

Alina nods, ladling Slava his portion of the grain. “That’s why I like it for breakfast.” She tops Slava’s bowl with berries, nuts, and a generous drizzle of honey and places it in front of the boy, who immediately sticks his spoon in. Instead of eating, however, he starts chasing a blueberry around the bowl while making engine noises under his breath.

I grin, realizing I’m finally seeing him play with his food like a normal kid. Catching his gaze, I wink and start stacking my blueberries on top of each other, like I’m building a tower. I make it only to the second level before the berries roll off each other, landing in the portion of the grain made sticky by the honey.

I grimace, feigning dismay, and Slava giggles and starts building a berry tower of his own. It turns out much better than mine since he uses honey as glue and props up his blueberries with cut strawberries.

“Very good,” I say with an impressed expression. “You really are a natural-born architect.”

He beams at me and proudly scoops up a spoonful of the grechka along with a chunk of his berry creation. Stuffing it into his mouth, he chews triumphantly while I praise him for being so clever. Encouraged, he builds another tower, and I make him laugh again by having one of my blackberries chase a blueberry that keeps rolling away from my spoon.

“You really do like children, don’t you?” Alina murmurs when Slava and I tire of the game and resume eating. Her expression is decidedly warmer, her green gaze filled with a peculiar wistfulness as she glances at her nephew. “It’s not just a job to you.”

“Of course not.” I smile at her. “Children are amazing. They can make us see the world as we once did… make us feel that sense of joy and wonder that the passing years steal from us. They’re the closest thing we have to a time machine—or at least a window to the past.”

Her lashes sweep down again, concealing the look in her eyes, but there’s no missing the sudden tension bracketing her mouth. “A window to the past…” Her voice holds a strangely brittle note. “Yes, that’s exactly what Slava is.”

And before I can ask what she means, she changes the topic to today’s cooler weather.