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For the first time in a very long time, I am not looking forward to being alone.

8

ELARA

Four days into my stay at the Volkov estate, I have learned that the house has three kitchens, two playhouses, a swimming pool, a gym, a movie theatre, and an alarming number of men who appear whenever I turn a corner.

I have also learned that Galina considers breakfast a serious undertaking, Kirill can be persuaded to smile if sufficiently provoked, Viktor has no apparent employment despite owning several expensive suits, and Irina Morozova visits far more often than any aunt reasonably needs to.

Especially when Nikolai is home.

She is here again this morning, although thankfully not at breakfast.

Anya sits across from me at the long dining table, carefully spreading jam over a piece of toast while I attempt to drink enough coffee to become a functioning member of society.

My hip is much better, although I still have a bruise the size of a small country, and my shoulder complains whenever I reach too far. The headaches have mostly settled, which means I can finally spend more than twenty minutes reading without feeling as though somebody is tightening a belt around my skull.

I have also slept properly every night since arriving.

I am trying not to think too hard about what that says about my previous living arrangements.

“Elle, do you think Aunt Irina will stay for lunch?” Anya asks.

I look up from my coffee. “I'm afraid I haven't received her itinerary.”

“She comes here a lot,” Anya says, taking a bite of toast.

“I've noticed.”

“She likes Papa.”

I nearly choke.

Anya watches me with mild concern. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly,” I say, reaching for my water. “Coffee went down the wrong pipe.”

She accepts this and returns to her toast.

I look toward the windows. I have been resisting the urge to ask whether Nikolai and Irina are involved since the moment I arrived and saw her touching him in the courtyard. It would be an inappropriate question. A deeply inappropriate question. I am employed here.

Temporarily. By a man I have known for less than a week.

A man who is also Anya's father, significantly older than me, and apparently wealthy enough to purchase an entire hospital if he disliked the waiting time.

I don’t need to know whom he sleeps with.

Unfortunately, my brain has not accepted that conclusion.

It has been particularly unhelpful since the afternoon he helped me out of my blouse.

I can still remember the way his hands moved over the buttons, careful and controlled, and how absurdly large they looked against the fabric. I remember him kneeling in front of me, the warmth of his fingers brushing my skin as he eased the sleeve from my injured shoulder.

I had wanted him to touch me. Not merely help me undress.

He had been close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw and the silver threaded through his dark hair, and I had spent several extremely embarrassing seconds imagining what those hands would feel like if he stopped being careful.

I had wanted those large hands to slide beneath my camisole, cup my breasts, and make me forget about the pain in my shoulder for an entirely different reason. I had wanted to know what his mouth would feel like against mine.