Page 157 of Cruel Demands

“You did. You had colic.”

“Maybe you did something⁠—”

“Careful what you say,” she says. “I think some of these men might still be loyal to me.” She gestures with her fork to the guards.

I laugh and hold the blanket against my chest. I kiss Nikita’s cheek and look at Mikhail happily, waving his blanket like a flag won.

“Would your family ever live here?” he asks.

“In Russia?”

“Yes.”

“My parents don’t speak Russian.”

“They could learn.”

“My father complains when restaurants change their menus. I don’t know how he would handle changing continents.”

“He would have his restaurant. Maybe you could all be happy here and not just… stuck here.”

Normally, I would accuse him of planning my family’s relocation before I’ve agreed to anything. Instead, I picture my mother drinking tea with Nikita. My father fighting with Mikhail over the correct way to cook something. The two of them seeing that I am safe.

Or safe enough.

The image brings an unexpected ache of happiness. When I look up, Mikhail sees it. His expression is so open that I know exactly what he’s thinking about—a future with me. His mother sitting beside me. The remnants of pancakes between us. His old blanket in my arms and his child inside me. How can I be angry that he wants to plan that, with or without me?

“Yeah, maybe.”

By the time my phone vibrates on the table, pale morning light has filled the kitchen. I glance toward the clock. It is almost seven. The name on the screen pulls me back to the present. Anya. I pick it up.

Petyr told me someone from university saw you at a market and you were pregnant. Is it true?

I stare at the message. Across the table, Mikhail’s phone begins to ring. He glances at the screen. “Olga,” he says.

Something in his tone makes Nikita look up. There is nothing strange about Olga attending the hospital opening later this morning. Half the senior regional government will be there. It’s one of Mikhail’s public victories, the kind of event that gathers ministers, donors, doctors, cameras, and anyone who wants to be photographed near him. He answers. “Yes?”

I type beneath the table.

Yes, it’s true.

Anya’s reply comes almost immediately.

Taylor, are you sure you’re okay? Do you know what he really is?

Mikhail leans back in his chair, listening. “No,” he says. “The hospital event is proceeding as planned.” The man who made pancakes is disappearing beneath the politician again.

I look back at my phone. I owe Anya the truth. I owe her a closed door.

I’m safe. I know all the things he is, and I know safe isn’t one of them. I’ve made my choice.

Across from me, Mikhail’s expression sharpens. “Why do you need the contractor list?” Nikita’s attention moves fully to him.

I read Anya’s next text.

Are you coming back for your things?

So she understands that I’m not coming back. Maybe she understood before I did. I look around the kitchen. At the ridiculous collection of food covering the counters. At the cooling pancakes. At Mikhail’s old baby blanket folded across my lap.