“Yan,” Ilya calls from outside, “I’ll break down this door. I’m not joking, motherfucker.”
Yan calmly adjusts his clothes, looking at me with stony eyes. “Cover yourself up.”
I glance down at the open shirt. There are smudges of foundation over the front. Yan’s collar carries the same marks. My hands tremble as I fasten the buttons. Yan waits until I’ve finished, then trails his gaze over me. He frowns. Bending down, he brushes the dirt from my knees. I stand there like a puppet, for the first time in my life uncertain how to act.
When he straightens, there’s ice in his tone. It’s as if the heat we’ve created not seconds ago has frozen over. “Time to get back to work.”
He walks to the door, takes the key from his pocket, and unlocks it.
Ilya all but falls through it. The bulkier of the twins looks between Yan and me, and back at Yan. Accusation burns in his eyes. “What’s going on in here?”
“Nothing,” Yan says with much irritation. He locks the door and comes back to the chair, lowering his big frame without a hint of emotion. “You heard me, princess. Show us what you’re worth.”
I glance at Ilya, who stands there with balled fists and flaring nostrils.
“Don’t mind him,” Yan says. “Now, where were we?”
Yes, where were we? I was about to demonstrate my guilt with the swipe of a makeup brush.
“I go first,” Ilya says with an obstinate lift of his chin.
Yan fixes him with a look. “You go nowhere.”
“What’s your fucking problem?”
“Now’s a good time to shut up.”
“Fuck you.”
“So you’ve said.”
I clear my throat. “Cut it out, you two.”
“You,” Yan says flatly, “don’t get to tell us what to do.”
Fine. Let them tear into each other. What do I care? A small voice says I do, but it’s a silly notion. Nothing I care about matters now, anyway.
With a brooding Ilya watching, I get to work. I use the skills Gergo taught me, transforming Yan into a different man. When I’m done, I step back to evaluate the result.
“Fuck,” Ilya says behind me.
Yan’s instruction is harsh. “Give me a mirror.”
I hand him the one from the makeup case.
If it was possible for the glittery gemstone color of his eyes to turn dull, they would’ve. “Well,” he says, turning his face from side to side, “at least this is one thing you didn’t lie about.”
There can be no bigger lie between us. How’s that for irony?
“We better go tell Peter,” Ilya says in a surly tone.
“Yes.” Yan gets to his feet, retrieving his phone from the bench. “We better.”
“Yan.” I take his arm. “I’m sorry it’s like this.”
He shakes off my touch. “I’m sure you are.” He brings his face close to mine. “You’re going to be much sorrier before this is over.”
With those prophetic words, he steers me back to the bench, makes me lie down, and ties my arms to a hook on the wall above my head. Then he and his brother leave, this time flicking off the light when they go.
Darkness prevails.
In some lone corner, a cricket chirps out of tune.
12
Yan
All I want is to get rid of the disguise. It goes deeper than washing the makeup from my face. I want to scrub the proof of Mina’s betrayal from my skin.
I’m walking back from the main house to our sleeping quarters after showing Sokolov Mina’s work when Ilya catches up with me.
He cuts me off. “Give me the key to the shed.”
I laugh.
His face turns red. “Who appointed you as her jail keeper?”
“She chose me.” I stab a thumb at my chest.
“You didn’t give her a choice.”
Like hell. “She made the decision.”
Maybe not for the right reason. Maybe she only fucked me that night in Budapest to distract me from killing her or to win time so she could escape later, but she chose me. It’s my hand she took. It’s me she followed to the bedroom.
Still, a nasty kernel of doubt sprouts in my mind. If Ilya had been sitting next to her on the couch and I’d been the one making the sandwich, would she have gone with Ilya? But no. She had her chance when I was making the princess her tea.
“She’ll want me,” Ilya says. “Give me the key and I’ll prove it.”
“Sorry, brother.” I move around him and say over my shoulder, “Not this time.”
He runs to keep up with my long strides. “Why do only you get to have her? Why can’t we share?”
I see bright fucking red. “It’s me she fucked over. The revenge is mine.”
“I was there.”
I chuckle. “You made the sandwich.” When it comes to revenge, a fuck weighs a lot more than a wasted sandwich.
He grabs hold of my arm, stopping me. “Sokolov is going to kill her. You know that, right?”
I pull free. “What do you take me for? An idiot?”
“Is that what this is about?” He lowers his voice and glances at the sky, probably scanning the air for nosy drones. “You want to be the one to swing the blade?”
“That’s exactly it,” I grit out.
He scoffs. “You think that’s your right?”
He better believe it. “Everything concerning that little traitor is my right.”
“Explain to me how one fuck makes her your property.”
I put my face in his. “Why? Because you want to fuck her before I kill her?”
His features tighten. “You’re overreacting. It’s her job. Anyone would’ve done the same. Put yourself in her shoes. You fuck her once, by random coincidence, and by frightening the hell out of her. Then someone comes along—say, Sokolov—and shows you a picture of Mina. He offers you money to disguise another woman to look like her. It’s how you make your living, so you do it. Would you have asked questions? Would you have wanted to know why he needed to make
