I can already imagine how going home would pan out. Sofia and Natalia would look at me with pity. Nikolai, Lion, and my brothers would seethe with rage. They won’t judge me—no. But they will feel sorry for me. They will feel angry at Agafon.
And right about now, I need to be alone without bringing all that trouble to my family’s door. None of them will rest until they exacttheirrevenge. I don’t want them to worry, notuntil I clear my thoughts and find a good enough reason to go back home that won’t start a war between the Orlov-Zolotov and Letvin clan.
I’m tired. I just need to… rest. Collect my thoughts.
“Where to?” the driver asks again, eyeing me in the rearview.
I wipe away the tears and lean between the seats. “There’s a viewpoint on a cliff near the outskirts of the city,” I say. “I’ll direct you.”
***
By the time we reach the cliff, I’m numb with sorrow. My hands won’t stop trembling, and my tears won’t stop pouring, but I hardly feel or notice either because my mind is creating a roadmap of every smile Agafon ever gave me, every kindness he showed me, and every inch of skin he traced his hands over.
I feel dirty. I feel used. I wish I could shed this skin and pretend he never touched me the way he did. He never thought of me as beautiful, I find myself thinking with despair. He only wanted me to fall for him so he could break my heart.
“Miss?” The voice brings me back to the present, and I realize the car is parked very close to where Agafon had left his when he had brought me here for that date. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say with a croaked voice and feel grateful that my Uber account has a credit balance, so I don’t have to pay him through any online means. If I did, Agafon might find me.
It’s only when the car drives off and I find myself standing alone at the cliff that I realize why I came here. This is the last place on earth Agafon would think I’ve run off to—his hut.
My feet know the way even as my mind reels from everything that's happened. The path grows more familiar as it gives way to scrubby woodland. The small hut sits nestled among a cluster of trees.
Agafon brought me here two months ago. I'd felt special that night, chosen. The memory curdles in my stomach now.
I hunt for the spare key he showed me he kept in a tree bed nearby,in case I ever decided to come here to think, he had said.The door creaks when I push it open. I sink onto the couch and finally let the tears come, hot and fast down my cheeks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Agafon. I silence it and toss it onto the cushion beside me.
In the sudden quiet, memories flood back, memories I don’t want to think about, but I search through them to figure out whether I was responsible in any way for the decisions Nikandr made.
Five years ago, I was only nineteen and still in college. He was twenty-five, handsome, and devastatingly charming in that dangerous way that makes young girls do stupid things. We met at a singles mixer that my roommate forced me to attend.
“You look as bored as I feel,” he'd said, sliding up to the bar where I stood. “Want to make our own fun?”
I should have said no. But his gray eyes, so like Agafon's, held a spark of adventure that called to the part of me that had always been sheltered.
For three months, it was intoxicating. Late nights in clubs I'd never dared enter before. Motorcycle rides along the coast with the wind whipping through my hair. Heated kisses in shadowy corners. I mistook intensity for passion, obsession for love.
The changes were subtle at first. He'd check my phone when I wasn't looking, get angry if I spent time with friends instead of him, and question why I wore certain outfits. I made excuses: he was passionate, he cared, he'd had a difficult life.
But then, he started getting jealous and throwing accusations my way that had no basis. He constantly needed to know where I was and who I was with. The person I thought I had fallen in love with had turned into something else—morphed into a monster. His mood swings would always leave me on edge, and I never knew what would trigger them next.
The night it ended, he'd picked me up from campus. His eyes were glassy, his movements jerky. He drove us to a party in some shady part of town when he told me we’d be going for dinner.
“I don't want to go in there,” I said when I saw the people stumbling around outside. “I have an early class tomorrow.”
“Don't be such a fucking prude,” he snapped, grabbing my wrist hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises. “We're going to have some fun. I got us something special.”
He pulled out a small bag of white powder. My stomach dropped. “No, Nikandr. I don't want that. And you shouldn't either.”
His face darkened. “What, you think you're too good for this? Too good for me?”
“That's not what I said—”
“Shut up!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “You're just like everyone else, looking down on me. Poor little Nikandr, can't measure up to his brothers.”
I saw then what I'd been ignoring. He'd been using drugs for a while now, and that explained his paranoia, his moodswings, and his constant borrowing of cash—and he wanted to drag me down with him.
