PIPER
If I could have fallen back asleep after Timofey left last night, I would have thought my interaction with him was some kind of nightmare. It was all too unbelievable to be real.
Unfortunately for me, sleep was non-existent. I tossed and turned hopelessly for hours. Periodically, I flipped on my bedside lamp to check the red welts around my wrist where he held me.
When he pinned me to the headboard and crawled over me, his nearness was a drug. I inhaled him. Got high on Timofey Viktorov.
One hit almost killed me.
Thankfully, time and distance has left me with a clear head. Clearer, at least. It's almost fitting that the bruise he marked me with covers the small tattoo of a bright moon I have on the inside of my wrist.
I got it on spring break with Noelle and Ashley. We were seventeen.
"A sun for me because I'm the center of attention, obviously," Ashley had said as she picked them out from the wall of art options at the tattoo shop.
Then she handed a star to Noelle. "A star for the A-plus student. Here you go, Ms. Valedictorian." Noelle rolled her eyes, but accepted her fate.
Then Ashley gave me the crescent moon. "And a moon for the woman who reflects the best of us. The friend who manages the ebbs and flows of our relationship without any of the glory."
"Sure, make her reasoning all cute and thoughtful," Noelle complained. "I'll just be the nerd, I guess."
I run my thumb over the fading tattoo and take a deep breath. It's good to remind myself of the core truth here.
What I'm doing today…It's for them.
I leave a message on Andrea's desk phone with a fake cough and an excuse about actually getting sick after all. Then I shower and change.
I opt for something business casual but baggy. I can still feel the way Timofey's gaze dragged over me last night. His attention had a heft that I still can't seem to shake. If there is any way I can avoid catching his eye, I'm willing to try it. I'd wear a potato sack if it meant keeping those eyes away from me.
Before I wheel my bike into the hallway, I stop and look around my apartment. Timofey didn't say anything about me not coming back to my place tonight. Aside from telling me to be there this morning, I know nothing.
But it still feels like a goodbye of sorts.
So I look around at the remnants of my ordinary life—the crocheted blanket my grandma made me tossed over the arm of my ratty couch, the toast crumbs on the counter, my running shoes kicked off next to the door. I catalog all of it, hoping that one day soon, I'll be back here safe and sound and all of this will be a distant memory.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I snort.
Yeah, fucking right.
Once you meet Timofey Viktorov, there is no going back.
By the time I wheel my bike up the stairs of the mansion and lean it against the stone facade, I'm dripping in sweat. So much for my baggy clothes.
"Delightful," I mutter, fanning myself.
Whatever. It's not like I'm trying to impress Timofey anyway. He's seen me looking like a drenched sewer rat once and again with sleep breath in the middle of the night. He can handle my post-bike ride stank.
I go to knock on the door, but it's already cracked open. Voices filter out onto the porch.
I lean in, turning my ear towards the door. The voices are definitely male, but I can't make out what they're saying.
Suddenly, the door yanks inward and I stumble forward slightly. A pair of large hands set me upright.
"Looks like we've got ourselves a Girl Scout. You're selling cookies, sweetheart?"
The man in front of me is tall and lean. His face is gaunt, shadows pressed under his cheekbones and his eyes. His lips are stretched into a threatening smile that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
I pull away from him and frown. "I'm not a Girl Scout. I'm a grown woman."
He looks me over, his eyes taking their time descending my frame. "Indeed you are. But by the look of you, you still might have something sweet for me to taste."
I have no idea who this man is, but I've more than met my asshole quota in the last forty-eight hours. If I have to live in this house for any period of time, I'm going to set a precedent for how I'm treated.
Starting now.
I fix the creep with an overly polite smile. "I'm fresh out, so I'm afraid you'll have to find a treat on your own. I'm sure you're accustomed to servicing yourself anyway."
The other men in the entryway hand crackle as the gaunt man's face reddens.
Serves him right.
"I'm here to see Timo—err, Mr. Viktorov." I look past the man to the men standing behind him. They're staring at me, refusing to make themselves useful. "Is he here?"
A younger man steps forward, finally prepared to help. Before he can, the gaunt man reasserts himself. "I can help with whatever you need."
I clench my jaw. "I'm sure you'd like to, but I'd rather pluck off my fingernails than talk to you for another second. Get out of my way before—"
"Before what?" His voice is a low hiss. "You think you have rights here, little girl?"
"The right not to get harassed by an asshole, if nothing else."
His lips twist into a nasty smirk. "You gave that up when you stepped through the door. You don't walk into the lion's den and tell a lion not to bite."
I look him up and down with a shrewd eye. "Are you supposed to be the lion in this analogy?"
His eyes flare and he yanks up his shirt sleeve, revealing a black blob tattooed on his inner wrist. "You know what these stand for, Girl Scout?"
It takes a few seconds for me to recognize the blob on his arm is not a blob, but a cloud of individual black dots. There are at least a hundred tattooed dots, maybe more.
"These," he growls, leaning towards me, "represent each person I've ki—"
"Rodion."
A deep, commanding voice I recognize booms through the room. I turn just as Timofey steps through the parting crowd of men.
Considering that the last time I saw him, he was threatening me in the dark of my room, I'm surprised at how relieved I am to see him now.
I suppose the devil you know really is better than the devil you don't.
The man—Rodion, I guess—steps back. "Timofey." He drops his sleeve and his tattoos disappear from sight. "I was just greeting your guest."
"That's not your job for a good reason," Timofey snaps. "Fyodor is better at it. He's also more pleasant to look at."
Rodion holds up his hands and takes another step away from me. "Let's not get mean,sobrat.Fyodor might have a face for television, but I—"
"Have revealed enough of yourself already," Timofey growls.
Rodion's jaw clicks, but he nods and lowers his head in deference. "I didn't realize you were expecting a guest today."
"It's none of your fucking business who comes and goes in my house." Timofey walks over to me, standing at my side like a guard dog, hackles raised. "Disrespect me or any of my guests again, and I'll be on my worst behavior."
Rodion swallows. I shudder to think what Timofey's worst behavior might look like. I'm usually anti-violence, but I actually wouldn't mind a little example. Especially if Rodion is the test subject.
"Understood," Rodion mumbles, nodding.
I have to bite back a smile. It's rare in life that you get to witness immediate karma. It's nice to see a creep like Rodion get what he deserves.
Rodion turns and tips his head towards the hallway. All of the other men in the room start to file out. He's clearly some kind of leader to these men, yet Timofey put him in his place with ease. In the hierarchy of this house, Timofey is at the tippy top.
Good to know.
But the relief I felt at Timofey's appearance fades quickly once we're alone. And I'm left thinking,Maybe Rodion wasn't so bad, after all.