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“Mara is my mother,” I explain, taking another long sip.
“You don’t call her mother?” Alyona frowns deeply.
“I just don’t think I’ve ever called her Mom. She’s a cold woman. Though she’d tell me that’s the Orlova way.”
“Orlova?” Her face twists slightly, and recognition flickers. “You are Alena Orlova?”
“Yeah…” I frown softly. “I thought you knew, with your talk of the Family and everything.”
“Yes, of course!” Alyona spurs back into action, and the fleeting concern on her face vanishes. “Now, drink. All of it, child.”
Only when she says that do I realize the nausea has faded and my stomach feels much more settled.
“Oh, wow, I didn’t even notice I was feeling better.”
“You’re welcome.” Alyona grins toothily at me. “Now go, a young woman like you needs her rest!”
“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” I ask, eyeing the dirty pans and the several others bubbling on the stove.
“Get out,” she says sharply, still smiling, and I nod quickly.
“Alright, thank you.”
“Yes.”
“And it was lovely to meet you.”
“Yes, yes.”
She waves me away, and I do just that, retracing my steps back through the manor to find my new bedroom. With the smoothie settling in my stomach, exhaustion tinges my senses and my eyes are heavy by the time I crawl into bed.
I think things here, although it’s alarming and strange that I’m in another country, could be pretty fantastic.
And yet, Alyona’s reaction to my name makes me pause and keeps my sleep at bay for another few hours at least.
Why, out of everyone I’ve met, did she seem concerned about who I was?
32
KRISTOF
I can get used to this.
Seated in the Library, Alena is spread out in front of the fireplace on her stomach, book in hand. The lights are low, the curtains drawn, and with a fruit-and-cheese platter between us, we’re almost like a real couple.
A boring one, but in a way that’s nice.
I can almost picture this as how life will be when the war is over and Aleksander is ousted.
I will be Pakhan, with Alena by my side, looking absolutely phenomenal. I’m so close.
Closing my eyes, I listen to the fire crackle and the wood shift as it breaks apart in the heat, the soft rustle of pages turning, and the occasional sound of satisfaction from Alena. Every time she makes that noise, that unfamiliar sensation flares in my chest and sits like a warm rock, nestled deep.
I still don’t know what it is.
Fabric rustles, and Alena stands over me when I open my eyes with her closed book in hand. She easily drops into my lap, and a warm smile spreads over her beautiful face. In the three days we’ve been here, she’s really opened up.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, tracing the side of my face with a couple of soft fingertips.
