Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

He’s an entirely different boy out here than in the dining room with his family.

As we make our way through the woods, he chatters in Russian, and I reply in English whenever I can guess what he’s saying. I also make sure to give him English words for everything we encounter, and I do my best to learn the Russian words he teaches me.

“Belochka,” he says, pointing at a squirrel, only to break into giggles when I mangle the word in my attempt to repeat it. He, on the other hand, pronounces English words perfectly almost from the first try; I suspect he’s either been watching English-language cartoons or he has perfect pitch.

Musically inclined kids tend to master accents faster than their peers.

“Do you like music?” I ask as we’re returning home. I hum a few notes to demonstrate. “Or singing?” I do my best rendition of “Baby Shark,” which causes him to whoop in laughter.

In case there was any doubt, I’m not musically inclined.

As we approach the house, Pavel comes out to greet us, a fierce glower on his face. “Where were you? It’s almost five, and he hasn’t had his snack.”

“Oh, we were—”

“And your clothes have been delivered. They’re in your room.” Eyeing Slava’s dirty shoes with disapproval, he picks up the boy and carries him into the house, muttering something in Russian.

Chagrined, I take off my muddy sneakers and follow them in. I probably should’ve cleared our hike with Slava’s caretakers, or at least kept better track of time. I did bring a couple of apples for Slava to munch on if he got hungry—I grabbed them from the kitchen before leaving—but I guess that’s not as complete of a meal as the cheese-and-fruit tray Pavel brought up yesterday.

When I get to my room, I wash my hands and fix my bun; a bunch of fine strands have escaped the confinement and are framing my face in a messy halo. Then I head into my closet to check out the delivery.

Holy shit.

The walk-in closet—ninety-five-percent empty after I unpacked my suitcase—is now packed to the brim. And it’s not just the fancy gowns my employers mandate for dinner. There are jeans and yoga pants, tank tops and T-shirts and sweaters, casual sundresses and sleek pencil skirts, socks and pajamas and hats. And underwear, all kinds, from thongs to comfy cotton panties to sports bras and lacy push-up bras, all improbably in my size. There’s even outerwear—lots and lots of outwear, ranging from light rain jackets and sleek wool coats to puffy parkas that would withstand arctic weather.

It’s a closet for all seasons and all occasions, and judging by the tags, everything’s brand-new.

Stunned, I turn over a tag hanging from a soft-looking white sweater.

$395.

What the fuck?

I grab a tag from the nearest parka, a pretty blue one with a fur-lined hood.

€3.499. Made in Italy.

“You like?”

I give a start and spin around to face Alina, who’s standing at the entrance of the closet.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, flicking her glossy black hair over her shoulder. She’s already changed into another stunning gown, a red ankle-length piece with a thigh-high slit that shows a sliver of one long, toned leg. She’s also refreshed her makeup, extending the eyeliner to emphasize the feline quality of her tip-tilted eyes.

“I knocked, but no one answered,” she continues, “so I figured you were exploring your new things.”

“I was—I am.” I glance over my shoulder at the packed hangers and shelves. “Is that… all for me?”

“Of course. Who else would it be for? I don’t need any more, that’s for sure.” Strolling over to stand next to me, she pulls out a long yellow dress and holds it up to my chest, then hangs it up and pulls out a pale pink one.

“But it’s way too much,” I say as she holds the pink dress against me, only to reject it as well. “I don’t need all of this. A few dresses for dinner, sure, but the rest—”

“That’s my brother for you. Nikolai doesn’t do half measures.” She flips through the rest of the gowns with practiced speed and pulls out a shimmery peach number. Versace, the label on it states, and there’s no price tag in sight—probably because the amount would be scary. Holding it up against me, Alina gives a satisfied nod. “Try this on.” She thrusts it into my arms.

“Right now?”

She arches her eyebrows. “I can turn away if you’re shy.” Matching action to words, she gives me her back.

Suppressing an exasperated sigh, I quickly scramble out of my clothes and into the dress—which somehow fits perfectly, the gold-speckled peach chiffon draping over my body with stunning elegance. The A-line skirt falls gracefully to my feet, and the square-cut bodice has a built-in bra that lifts my modest B cups, giving me a hint of cleavage. The wide straps conceal my shoulders, but my arms and the upper portion of my back are left bare, exposing the scabs from where the shards of glass pierced my skin.