“To begin with, you’ll need to move in here with me.”
“What? No!”
“I can’t protect you if you aren’t around.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it. He’s right. It’s unrealistic to think he can protect me long-distance. And he can’t come hang out at my place. My garage apartment is barely big enough for me, much less him and three fully grown Dobermans. But what does “moving in with him” entail?
“All right. So let’s say I move in with you… Then what?”
He gives me a flat look, like I just asked him to describe how water tastes.
“I mean, like, do I get stuck here the whole time? Can I go to work? Jog in the morning? I still need to do those things.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I said move in, not be imprisoned.”
I inhale shakily. That makes me feel a bit better. “Okay. Um. I guess I need to go to my place and grab my things, then.”
“That won’t be necessary, especially if your stuff is anything like what you had on earlier.”
“I can’t go around in nothing but sheets.” My clothes are cheap, but they’re better than bedsheets, for sure.
“Obviously.”
At least he’s not totally unreasonable.
He continues, “You said he’s going to come and kill you himself when you’re at your happiest, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“So. We will give this man what he wants, so he’ll come out to play.”
My mouth dries at the notion of Roy not just coming to Los Angeles, but coming close enough to kill me, like he said. I run sweat-dampened palms over the sheet. “But how does that help?”
“Where is your stepbrother now?”
“I…don’t know.”
“Precisely.” Tolyan gives me a beatific smile. “You can’t stop him if he’s far, far away, little fawn.”
Did he just call me a little fawn? It sounds oddly intimate and sweet, and makes my insides flutter.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
Chapter Ten
Angelika
Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.
Tolyan said it with a faint smile, and his voice was soft and low. But it sounded like a vow.
And it’s the most wonderful thing anybody has said to me in a long, long time. My entire body sags and the air tastes sweeter and…freer. I realize a huge weight has been lifted.
The skin around my eyes heats, and I bury my face in my hands as tears pour down.
I know the struggle isn’t over. Roy is still out there. But now I’m not alone. And that means everything to me.
I hear chair legs moving on the marble floor. A moment later, a warm hand rests on my shoulder.
“Kleenex,” Tolyan says.
The Dobermans whine and lick my arms and hands and rub against my legs, as though they’re trying to comfort me with their bodies. I wipe my face with my hands, then use the Kleenex to dry my face and blow my nose.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice nasal. “I don’t mean to cry. I’m just so relieved.”
“You don’t have to hold back,” Tolyan says. “If you want to cry, cry.”
I can’t think of a time somebody told me to cry if that’s what I wanted. Most say, “Don’t cry,” or “Don’t be sad,” or “It’s all going to work out.”
“I don’t want to make you feel bad,” I say finally. It’s terribly important that Tolyan knows I don’t want to burden him with my emotional issues, on top of stopping Roy, which he already agreed to.
“Only a weak man feels bad when a woman cries.”
I stare at him. I’ve never heard a man say that. Ever.
“A strong man bears her tears. Then—if he so wishes—he eliminates the source of her distress.”
His coolly confident tone says he is easily capable of the latter. If this were some other guy, I might think he was bragging, but Tolyan is no braggart. I’ve seen him in action. His dogs offer him absolute obedience. He can slip in and out of somebody’s home undetected…and do things that most people can’t do.
He doesn’t care what people think of him. He doesn’t care about meeting expectations, either. He can be cruel and cold to a seemingly distressed woman, and can be surprisingly kind to a waiter.
He’s arrogant. Snobbish. But affectionate and firm with his dogs. Protective when he wants to be.
There are a lot of contradictions, and honestly speaking, I shouldn’t feel safe with him. He could change at any moment and show his cruel side.
But I do.
“Want some ice cream?” he asks. “It usually makes women feel better. I’d offer vodka, but…”
“Ice cream would be wonderful,” I say with a teary smile. “Thank you. And can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he says, going to the kitchen.
“What’s with that spring thing you were squeezing?”
“It’s a valve spring. From a car engine. In my line of work, it’s important to have a strong grip.” He brings me a bowl of ice cream drizzled with chocolate syrup. The syrup is an unexpected touch. He doesn’t seem like he’d be the fussy type with something like dessert.
After handing me the ice cream and a spoon, he drinks more vodka and absent-mindedly pets his dogs.
“Since you’re going to be here, you should know their names. This is Tchaikovsky. He’s the oldest and most disciplined.”
“Hi, Tchaikovsky.” I offer him my hand.
He comes over and puts his paw on my palm, and we shake. That done, he sniffs, then licks me, his tongue warm, damp and quick.
“He’s really sweet,” I say, petting him gently.
“He is. He’s also the most vicious of the trio.” Tolyan gestures at the darkest of the three. “That is Mussorgsky. Slightly lazy, and bossy with Stravinsky, who is the youngest. He likes to chase after small animals, but I’ve trained that out of him, so he only does it when he’s been given permission.”
“Hi,” I say.
“Mussorgsky, say hello to Angelika.”
The dog whines and places his head on my lap. I scratch him behind his ears. “I thought it was a thing not to clip Doberman’s ears.”
“Some also don’t dock their tails, either. Or offer them a protective collar,” Tolyan says. “People are welcome to do whatever they want with their animals. I prefer not to leave my pets with an unnecessary vulnerability.”
Vulnerability? “I don’t think the word ‘vulnerable’ can apply to your dogs.”
He smiles. “Because I don’t let them be vulnerable. Many think dogs have the upper hand because they have teeth, but that isn’t the case. People can grab them by their ears or their tails in a fight. Or try to choke the animal. Mine? Nobody can hurt them like that.” He leans forward and cradles Tchaikovsky’s face between his hands. “Isn’t that right, my little angel?”
Tchaikovsky whines happily and licks Tolyan like he’s made of candy. Tolyan’s eyes narrow, and he gives a small hum of pleasure. He murmurs something in Russian and pats the dog on the back a few times.