Rough Exile

I really hated not being able to understand Russian. I’d catch a few words I understood here and there, but Bron and Ilya spoke so much English that when they switched to Russian, it felt like they were keeping secrets from me.

Sighing at my paranoia, I gave my wine glass to a server. I took Ilya’s arm and let him lead me down the broad, marble-floored hall where his family members were entering a room where double-oak doors stood open.

The room was slightly bigger than the last one. A man who hadn’t been with us earlier stood at the front of the room. He was older than Vas. Was he Ilya’s grandfather or something?

A glance around the room showed me religious icons and rows of chairs.

The family was so religious they had their own chapel? Religion hadn’t really figured into our lives on the island, so Ilya coming from such a religious family hadn’t even crossed my mind.

Ilya led me down the aisle toward where the others were sitting. Had Vas summoned us here for some sort of religious service he hadn’t mentioned? A funeral? I definitely wasn’t dressed for one. Why were men so bad at giving a girl a heads-up ahead of time?

Ilya bypassed the chairs and led me right up to the man at the front. I didn’t know anything about their religion. Maybe I needed to be welcomed into the family as Ilya’s fiancée? Or maybe there was some sort of church service for getting engaged?

The weight of our fake engagement felt suddenly heavier.

I made eye contact with who I assumed was the priest. He was wearing a suit, not robes, but I didn’t know what was usual for their religion. My family was Catholic, but only vaguely—I’d only been to church maybe three times as an adult, and it had been for family weddings and a baptism, not regular services.

He watched us as we approached, and when we stopped in front of him, he spoke in Russian. The rest of the family murmured some sort of response, and I glanced up at Ilya, trying my best to look like everything was cool and I was happy to be there. He would explain later, I was sure.

The service went on for a while, with Bron whispering in my ear anytime I was expected to nod.

Suspicion made my ears buzz. I felt faint.

Surely, he wouldn’t—they wouldn’t…

At some point, the man seated us at a table and put documents in front of us. My eyes swam, trying to decipher the Cyrillic.

“What am I signing?” I whispered to Ilya.

“I’ll explain later,” he whispered back. The family was talking among themselves and barely paying us any attention.

The pen shook in my hand. Everything about this said it was a wedding, but Ilya wouldn’t do that to me, right? The ceremony—if that’s what it was—had only taken about seven minutes. A rich family like this would make more of a fuss for a real wedding.

Wouldn’t they?

When I glanced up at Bron, he nodded at me in covert encouragement.

A panicked feeling writhed in the pit of my stomach.

My mind kept screaming at me that two plus two equaled four—the expensive, albeit pale blue dress he’d insisted on buying me, the religious service, the family gathering, the congratulations.

No rings had been exchanged, but that was a technicality.

I slid my gaze to Ilya, but he was looking down at where his scarred hands rested on the table, still clutching his pen. His neck was red, but his expression was impassive.

I signed, forcing my expression to remain demure and my hand not to shake.

If this was what I thought it was, we’d sort it out later.

We rose. The man gave a brief speech, and the service was over.

The family filed out of the room and crossed the hall to a large, formal dining room.

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered to Ilya. I clutched at his arm to let him know I was serious, and it wasn’t some whim.

“Not now, wife. I’m sorry, but it will have to wait.”

Had the way he’d called me wife sounded different?

Were we really married? What if he’d arranged a wedding without telling me and I was standing here, legally his wife?

I didn’t even know what his last name was.

Maybe Bron would do something underhanded like that, but Ilya would never, right?

I thought about all the times we had fallen into a sweet, comfortable rhythm around each other—baking bread, working in the garden, taking care of the animals.

Would being married to him be so bad?

But that wasn’t the point! Getting married was a two-way street. He couldn’t just trick me into doing it. I was supposed to be willing. I was too young to get married and didn’t even know if I wanted to, let alone to a man who had paid me for sex.

The couples wandered over two at a time and spoke to us in Russian. Either no one had told them I could only speak English, or they didn’t feel the need to speak to me directly. Maybe they couldn’t speak English?

As the fourth set of them went back to socializing, I glanced up at Ilya again and pulled on his arm.