21
CORA
I jolt awake.
My chest is heaving and my eyes can’t seem to settle. I look for something, anything, to ground me. To remind myself that this has all been a dream. The party, Ivan, the shooting… all of it.
But I don’t see my bright yellow alarm clock with the googly eye stickers over the buttons. I don’t see the stack of CDs I’ve thrifted over the years even though I don’t have a working CD player. I don’t see the framed photo of me and Mom from when I was seven, the only one I have without my stepfather in it.
Instead, I see a four-poster bed with cream-colored silk curtains tied around each post. There’s a long wooden dresser topped with an ivory vase filled with blood red roses. The frames on the walls are gilded and the carpet is plush.
The last thing I remember is climbing into Ivan’s car. I closed my eyes at one point. I must’ve fallen asleep. Now, I’m here.
What happened in between?
There’s a large window on the wall to my left. The curtains are drawn, but a sliver of daylight peeks through a crack. It’s not much, but at least I know it isn’t nighttime.
That’s something.
“Hello?” My tired voice is barely more than a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. “Hello?”
There’s a door a few feet to my right. It’s open, but I don’t hear anything beyond. Slowly, I slide out from under the impossibly silky sheets and walk to the door.
A massive bathroom stretches out in front of me. There’s a single sink set in a long vanity. The mirror is framed in gold; so is the glass shower door. The tiles are iridescent, a pearly white that changes colors as I move from side to side. A fresh stack of towels sits on the counter.
Suddenly, I feel filthy.
My hair smells like gunpowder and I have the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Without a second thought, I strip out of my clothes and start the shower.
Steam swirls in the air, warming the bathroom to a toasty temperature my drafty apartment bathroom has never been capable of.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy a really incredible shower.
It can also buy soap and hair products that smell like manna from heaven. I scrub and rinse off and, once my skin is clean and pink, I kill the flow and dry off with a fluffy white towel.
The fairytale shatters when I realize I have to step back into my work uniform. No fairy godmother to magic me into a clean pair of sweats.
I pull my panties free of my pants and wince at how damp they are. I vaguely remember dreaming while I slept. Ivan’s hands on me in dark corners. His voice in my ear. The tension inside me building and building and…
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter.
I toss my shamefully soiled panties into a small trash can to hide the evidence and grimace as I pull on the polyester uniform over my bare skin.
Once I figure out where the hell I am, my first order of business will be a change of clothes.
It takes a few minutes for me to work up the courage to leave my room. When I finally crack the door open, I recognize the hallway immediately.
The maroon carpet runner and the beige walls with warm wood trim.
This is where Ivan hosted his party last night. It makes sense that he actually lives here, I suppose. I just can’t imagine it. Throwing lavish parties here? Sure. Padding around in holey flannel pajamas and watching Hallmark movies? Not exactly.
Though I doubt Ivan even has holey flannel pajamas. Picturing him in pajamas at all is a stretch. He is probably one of those hyper masculine guys who sleeps in the nude.
The thought sends heat burning to my face, and I quickly redirect my train of thought.
What a horrendously gaudy wall sconce. Only a real asshole would pick that out.
I’m still staring at the sconce, trying to think of anything except Ivan’s bare, muscled body, when I feel a presence behind me.
I spin around, arms held in some confused form of a fighting stance.
Yasha just arches a brow, his mouth pinched in an amused smile. “Hello to you, too.”
I lower my fists. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“I didn’t think I was. I’ve been standing out here since you creeped out of your bedroom. You should be more observant.”
I don’t have a snarky comeback for that. He’s right—if I’m going to live in this house, I have to pay attention.
“What time is it?” I turn in a circle until I see an intricate gold clock resting on a narrow table. Delicate flowers are painted on the face. It looks like an old granny clock. Nothing Ivan Pushkin would buy.
But I’m more surprised by the time.
“It’s twelve noon?”
“It’s not twelve midnight,” Yasha chuckles. “I’d be getting my beauty sleep if it was. Not all of us can afford to snooze the day away.”
I can’t afford it, either. Not usually, anyway. I can’t remember the last time I took a nap in the middle of the day. Definitely not since I moved out of my stepfather’s house.
“Why were you waiting for me?” I ask. Yasha hesitates, and I’m pretty sure I know the answer already. “Or did Ivan ask you to guard my room? Because our deal requires me to cooperate. It’s not as if I’m going to make a run for it and let Francia fend for herself against trained assassins.”
Yasha holds up his hands in surrender. “First of all, that guy was pathetic. Second, relax. I’m here to give you a tour. The estate is large. Ivan doesn’t want you getting lost.”
In a normal house, that would be a joke. But in this mansion, it’s a distinct possibility. Maybe a tour wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I agree, and Yasha leads the way, heading towards the stairs.
“Aside from Ivan’s office, which I hear you’ve already seen—” He glances back at me, and I’m sure my face is as red as a stop sign. “—this wing is just the two master suites and then some additional bedrooms. Maybe kids’ rooms someday.”
The idea of Ivan having kids—of some other woman carrying his children—is an insect buzzing around my head. Inconsequential, but annoying.
Whoever he chooses to have kids with, God help her. That’s all I have to say.
But I catch on another detail.
“Two master suites?”
“One.” He points to the door I just walked through. Then he rotates forty-five degrees and points to the door next to mine. “Two. This one is Ivan’s. The rooms are connected by an interior door. It’s more of a double master suite, I guess.”
I try to hide the panic clawing up my throat at the realization that Ivan is going to be sleeping one wall away. One door away.
A single twist of the handle and I could be in his room. I could find out what kind of pajamas he wears—if he wears any at all.
A bolt, I think. I’ll install a bolt. Or lock it with a wedged chair under the handle so he can’t infiltrate my room while I’m sleeping. Maybe I’ll call Jorden and ask her how to burn sage to keep demons at bay.
Yasha doesn’t notice my agitation as he continues downstairs.
Last night, the interior of the house was dark, lit only by selective lamps and candles. Today, sunlight streams through large windows. I notice a lot of details I missed.
“All rich people must use the same interior decorator,” I mumble.
Yasha chuckles. “Have you been in a lot of mansions?”
Just my stepfather’s, I want to say. But I chide myself quickly. Pay attention. Don’t let anything slip.
“I, uh…watch a lot of HGTV.”
“Yeah, well, Ivan is in the process of taking over the place from his parents. Redecorating hasn’t ranked high on the to-do list.”
Yasha leads me through a den, a meeting room, then back through another set of doors into a kitchen.
“That’s basically everything,” he sums up.
“This house has a million rooms. There’s no way that was the full tour.”
His eyes glimmer with mischief. “Everything you need to know about, anyway. If you get lost, it’ll be because you were sticking that little button nose of yours where it didn’t belong.”
He reaches out to tap my nose and I slap his hand out of the air. “Don’t touch me.”
From the other side of the kitchen, there’s a stifled laugh. I turn to see who it was—and have to bite off the beginnings of a scream.
An elderly man is standing next to the pantry. His face is long and gaunt with bushy eyebrows. His eyes seem to be sunken into the sockets, hooded yet perceptive. If Yasha told me he couldn’t see him standing there, I wouldn’t doubt it. The man looks like a ghost.
“And this is Niles.” Yasha sweeps an arm towards the man. “He may look like the cryptkeeper, but he’s actually the caretaker.”
Niles turns to me with a polite smile. “Keep putting him in his place, Mrs. Pushkin. Master Yasha needs a firm hand.”
“Oh, no, I—” I shake my head. “My name is Cora. I’m not Mrs. Pushkin. I’m not—”
“Married yet,” Yasha interjects quickly. “She’s still Ms.… What’s your last name again?”
“St. Clair. But you can call me Cora.” I smile at Niles. “Please.”
He bows his head respectfully. “Is there anything I can get for you, Cora? I apologize that your room is nowhere near ready yet. I wouldn’t have put you in there today, but it was at Mr. Pushkin’s request. He wanted to keep you close.”
Oh, I’m sure he did.
“But if there’s anything I can get you in the interim, something to eat or drink…?” He looks at my outfit and grimaces. “Some clothes, perhaps?”
I nod gratefully. “Clothes! Yes. Clean clothes would be amazing.”
Niles nods again. “The guest room directly across from yours isn’t being used right now, but there are plenty of things in there that should fit you. You can have your pick until your things come in.”
A room full of women’s clothes isn’t being used right now? As in, it has been used in the past? When? How frequently? By whom?
The jealousy is stupid. Ivan isn’t my husband. He isn’t my boyfriend. He isn’t anything to me.
You’re no one. You’re an empty vessel I can use as I please. As bait. As a wife. That’s what makes you perfect for this, Cora.
I need to remember that.