Rough Exile

Chapter Six

Iwasdeepinto a book when my growling stomach sent me back downstairs in search of food.

Leaving the sanctuary of Yana’s room was always difficult, and not only because the staircase gave me wicked vertigo. The longer I spent with Bron and Ilya, the stranger things became. I couldn’t complain about the easy money, but the fact that neither of them came to my room to have their way with me felt like danger lurking. It would be easier if they got it over with instead of making me wait and wonder.

It was late—probably somewhere between eleven and twelve. The two of them always disappeared after dinner, and I would retreat to my room to read and watch old movies on Yana’s VHS player, which I’d had to figure out how to use. She had a bookcase full of cartoons, teen comedies, and several romcoms from around when I was born. Luckily, many of them were in English.

Why had Yana and Ilya been exiled here, away from the rest of the family?

The kitchen was at the side of the house, near the stairwell to the other bedrooms. If I wasn’t quiet, I’d wake someone. They always went to bed early. It didn’t matter what time I got up in the morning, the two of them were awake and busy taking care of the small farm attached to the property.

I sorted through the cupboards and fridge, then decided to make myself a grilled cheese. I got the pan onto the stove without clanging it and was in the middle of buttering a slice of bread when I heard Bron’s voice. Considering he was upstairs, and it sounded like behind a closed door, the strident, berating tone made me cringe, as though I’d done something wrong. I was glad I couldn’t understand Russian.

He punctuated his statements with grunts.

Was he working out? Maybe coaching Ilya through push-ups or something?

Curious, but not wanting them to know I was snooping, I snuck up the stairs.

As I neared the room with the closed door, I could hear whispered, almost whimpered responses to Bron’s questions that I hadn’t been able to hear from downstairs. Whatever Ilya was saying, though, Bron apparently wasn’t satisfied.

There was a loud gasp.

What on earth?

The doorknob turned before I could find somewhere to hide, and then I was staring at Bron’s bare, sweat-slicked chest.

“What do you want, woman?”

My gaze couldn’t help but dip down to his jeans, which were unfastened. His black leather belt was folded in one hand. His mouth kicked up in a jaded smile.

“You come looking for dick?”

“No, I just…” My gaze slid past him to Ilya, who was pushing up from where he’d been sprawled on the floor. He was naked, moving stiffly, and welts covered his back and legs. I jerked my gaze away. “I was making a grilled cheese sandwich and was going to ask if either of you wanted one.”

Bron had seen me looking at Ilya. His dark eyes were like flint.

He made a spitting sound, although nothing came out of his mouth, then stalked past me and headed across the hall into another bedroom. He shut the door behind him.

I almost turned and went downstairs, but pretending none of this had happened would probably make it more awkward, considering I’d be with these men for weeks.

When I turned back to Ilya, he was tugging on a pair of track pants and not meeting my gaze. His face was scarlet where his facial hair didn’t hide it.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“Yes, it was my…” He gestured in the direction Bron had gone. “Penance?”

“Your penance?” I repeated. “You’re Catholic?”

“Maybe it’s not the right word. I’ve done wrong, so Bron corrects me.”

“He punishes you?”

“Yes. Punish. That’s the word.”

I looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered man. If I didn’t know how big Bron was, I wouldn’t have believed someone could physically dominate him.

“Why do you let him?”

“It is his place to correct me, my place to learn,” he explained slowly.

“By beating you with his belt?”

“Hard lessons are remembered best.”

“What did you do wrong?”

He shrugged, smiling. It was impossible to tell whether he was in pain, but the raised welts all over his back had to hurt. “Many things.”

“Are you hungry?”