Page 87 of Sexting the Pakhan

Ruslan looks at me as if he has to pull himself back from somewhere far away. “We got the mole.”

The sentence should bring relief. Instead, it brings nothing I know what to do with.

I look at his shirt. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Then whose blood is that?”

He doesn’t answer quickly enough.

My stomach twists.

Behind him, Stepan speaks to one of the men, and the house starts moving around us like this is a familiar routine. Someone shuts the door. Someone goes toward the side hall. Anya disappears into the kitchen and comes back with towels. The whole place knows what to do with blood except me.

“Ruslan,” I say.

His eyes return to mine. “He’s dead,” he says.

“What happened?” I ask without thinking.

“This is not your concern,” he says. The sentence hits exactly where he aims it.

I take a step back.

Not because I’m afraid of him. Not exactly.

Because a few hours ago I was sitting on the edge of his bathtub with my hand on my stomach, thinking maybe we could become something that required the truth.

Now he’s telling me where the line is.

Not your concern.

The words I meant to say press against my throat.

My period is late.

I’m scared.

I might be pregnant.

They stay there.

I can’t give them to this version of him. Not to the man who has brought death into the hall and then decided I belong outside the door of it. Not when I don’t even know if they’re true.

Ruslan looks at me for another moment, and something flickers in his expression. He has noticed. Of course he has. He notices everything, even when he understands nothing.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Zoya.”

“No.” I fold my arms around myself. “Don’t.”

His eyes move over my face. He’s tired, but not softly tired. There’s too much blood on him for softness. Too much unfinished violence still clinging to the room.

Then he says, “You’re free to leave.”