Page 170

Elara points at me. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I often think.”

“Not helpfully.”

She slips out of the linen closet first, fixing her dress as she goes, her face still flushed, her hair loose around her shoulders. I wait a few seconds before following, because if Galina is nearby, I would prefer to give the woman at least the dignity of pretending she has not heard anything.

The corridor is empty.

Elara looks both ways, then at me. “Last time.”

“Yes.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“No.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. Then she shakes her head and leaves, with as much dignity as a woman can manage after being fucked in a linen closet.

I watch her go and think, with complete seriousness, that we are going to be a problem.

We are.

At first, we are almost disciplined about it.

We try not to make things too obvious, no lingering conversation where anybody can see us, especially not in front of Anya. We speak to each other over breakfast like civilized people, which lasts until Elara reaches for the jam and I notice the faint mark my mouth left under her collarbone.

She sees me notice. Her cheeks go pink.

For the next twenty minutes, she refuses to look at me.

By noon, I have her in the shower.

I don’t plan it. That’s what I tell myself as I close the bathroom door behind me and find her behind the steamed glass, already wet, already turning toward me with disbelief on her face.

“Nikolai.”

“I know.”

“You cannot just walk in here.”

“I did knock.”

“You knocked while opening the door.”

“That still counts.”

“It absolutely doesn’t.”

She should be angry. She is trying to be. But water runs down her throat, over her breasts, along the soft curve of her stomach, and her eyes have already dropped to my mouth.