Lucy
In the car, I arrange my purse on my lap, digging in it for some lip balm. I swear, pregnancy makes my lips drier than the desert despite the fact that I drink and drink all day long.
I’m still emotional from seeing my dad and mixed up about Ravil.
“I have a present for you,” Ravil says.
“You do?” It’s funny how the promise of an unexpected gift has an instant lightening effect. Some carryover from childhood when gifts meant everything, I’m sure.
Ravil reaches into the back seat and produces a white box with a pretty light blue bow.
“What is it?”
Ravil’s smile is indulgent. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Open it.”
I tug the ends of the silky ribbon, and they unravel and fall open. I take the lid off and peer inside. “Matryoshka dolls!” I lift out a beautiful wooden doll painted as a woman in traditional peasant dress, only her face looks remarkably like mine. “Is this me?” I gasp, opening the doll to reveal the next one.
“They are all you until the last one,” Ravil says.
I crack them all open until I get to the baby. A little boy, judging by the light blue swaddling.
“In Russia they are a symbol of fertility and family. An honoring of how mothers carry the legacy of family into the future.”
My eyes mist. “I love it. Thank you.”
Ravil starts the car. “I honor the gift you are bringing me. Us,” he amends.
“Were you mocking me when you said those things to my father?” I restack the sweet nesting dolls, admiring their craftsmanship. How well they open and close.
“I spoke the truth,” he says quietly. “Every word.”
Tears threaten again, and I’m not the crying type. Damn hormones!
“What about the birth class?”
He nods. “We are really going. Svetlana holds a weekly class in the building on Saturdays. The new session starts tonight.”
“Bradley Method?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Well, it’s the one Svetlana likes best, after hypnobirthing. And she’s passionate about birth education.”
“Will it be in English?”
Ravil’s lips twitch. “It will.”
“And other couples will be there?”
“Yes.”
I sit back, somewhat buoyed by this information. I look over at Ravil, my handsome Russian captor. “Are you finished being mad at me?”
His lips twist wryly, and he keeps his gaze on the road. “I’m getting there.”
The baby kicks, and I gasp and smile, putting my hand over the place.
Ravil reaches over to lay his hand there, too. I cover it with mine and press it into my belly to show him where I feel the tiny bubbles of movement.
“Thank you,” I say.
He looks over.
“For taking me to see my dad. It means a lot to me.”
“I know, kitten,” he says. And I believe him. Because he does seem to know what’s important to me and what isn’t.
“Take me home,” I say, even though my instincts scream at me to hold back. That it’s too soon to make that request. Of course, I’m right.
“Your home is in the Kremlin,” he says firmly. “Our son’s home is in the Kremlin.”
I drop my head back against the seat back. Dammit.
I need to ask him about the sex trafficking, but I’m too terrified about what I’d find out. Things are finally settling between us. I know that’s cowardly, but protecting my mental state has some value when I’m growing a baby.
He pulls through a Dairy Queen drive-thru and orders me the Blizzard.
It wouldn’t be true to say I’m not getting somewhere with Ravil. He took me to see my parents, which he hadn’t agreed to before. He’s taking me to birthing class. He’s starting to show some trust.
I need to be careful and not violate that trust. Because Ravil told my father he cares about me. And he told me every word he said in the rehab was true.
So if I can build his trust, if I can win his forgiveness for trying to keep the baby from him, I believe I can eventually appeal to his more magnanimous side. This is a guy who gives the teens in his building a lecture about sex and offers them condoms. I believe he can be reasoned with.
Not today.
But I can bide my time.
And in the meantime, I’m not suffering. I’m in luxurious surroundings with daily massages, delicious food and more orgasms a night than I had in a year before Ravil.
And as for Ravil-well, I know he’s a criminal. I don’t believe he made the money to buy a multi-million dollar building overlooking Lake Michigan legitimately.
But I haven’t seen anything terrifying yet. He doesn’t seem mentally unstable. I have no reason to believe he’d be a bad father, if he promised to keep his business away from our child.
That would have to be the stipulation.
But we’re not ready to negotiate yet.
First, I surrender.
Give him what he wants-the security of having me under his thumb. Full access to my body at all times-I can’t say I mind that part-and the control over his son’s future that I tried to take away from him.
Later-much later-I will bring him to the bargaining table and negotiate for my freedom.
I scoop a spoonful of the blizzard and hold it out to him. “Would you like a bite?”