Nothing.
I pinched my brows together. It wasn’t like him not to respond, and there was no way to get outside without someone to open the door for him.
“Mikhail?” I whisper-yelled a little louder.
I stepped out of the room and slipped quietly into the hallway, the floorboards creaking just a little under my weight.
I rested my left hand on the bannister as I followed it around, the only sound being the tinkling of the crystals on the chandelier above as the draft seeped through the old house. Carpets laid softly under my feet, and the grandfather clock ahead of me and at the top of the stairs ticked steadily, the small noise amplifying how eerily quiet the house was in the middle of the night.
I would’ve heard him bark or growl or felt his sudden movement in bed at least if something made him nervous, right? He was always alert. No one was here now except my mother, sister, and me.
Trailing down the stairs, I held onto the railing with both hands as I took each step, and then I let go, walking carefully to the front door. I checked all the locks, making sure they were twisted into position.
And then I heard a little whine to my right.
“Mikhail?” I turned my head toward the sitting room.
Walking over, I took small steps and reached the rug, feeling him rush up to me, his wet nose hitting my knee.
“Hey, where did you go?” I teased, reaching down to pet him. “What…”
The scent of a cigarette hit me, and I trailed off
, my face falling.
My stomach sank, and I stood up straight, my chest rising and falling, steady but quick.
He’d had my dog.
“Don’t touch him again,” I bit out.
“He came to me.”
Damon’s voice came from somewhere deep in the room, and I guessed he was probably in the high-back cushioned chair in the corner by the window. I pictured him sitting in the dark, the only light the small embers from the tip of his cigarette.
I reached down to take hold of Mikhail’s collar.
“You gave your dog a Russian name,” Damon mused.
“I gave him a dancer’s name.”
Mikhail Baryshnikov. I couldn’t help the fact that most of the revered ballet dancers were Russian. It had nothing to do with it being a fucking nod to Damon’s heritage.
Just about to turn around and take my dog, I sensed him rise from his chair as the last of the cigarette smoke dissipated into the air. Keeping my dog close to me, I stepped back to the table against the wall and swiped the pen I knew sat there with a pad of paper for messages. I kept it in my hand, hidden behind my thigh.
There was a time when he scared me, and I liked it. I didn’t like it anymore.
“I don’t want to be here,” I told him. “I’ll find a way out. You know that.”
I faltered for a moment, realizing this was the first time Damon and I had had any semblance of a conversation—albeit reluctant—since he went to prison five years ago. Any other interactions we’ve had have either been brief attacks or bitter threats in passing.
“You have nothing to say?” I prodded.
“No, I just don’t feel a need to respond.” His voice grew closer, and he took a drink of something, the ice in his glass clinking before he set it down on a table. “You can say and make whatever declarations you like, Winter, but ultimately you’ll do what you’re told. You, your mother, and your sister,” he pointed out. “You don’t run this house anymore.”
“I’m an adult. I can go where I like and leave when I wish.”
“Then why are you still here?”