I frowned. “You don’t stress-eat—”
“Cock, Natalie. I was stress-eating cock. There, you made me say it, happy now?”
“Opa!”
“Twat.”
“Bitch.” Despite my foul mood, I had to check a grin. “I take it your trip was a success.”
“Of course it was. But I don’t want to talk about me, Richie Rich. I wanna know that you’re safe.”
Define “safe.” “I’ve been perfectly fine.”
She took me at my word. “So give me the details then! Tell me all about your gangster rumspringa.”
How to begin? I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection. I was back to my old Natalie self—no hint of Natalya—but if I were fanciful, I’d say my eyes were more . . . knowing. “It might not be just a rumspringa. Kovalev wants me to stay on.” Any other woman would kill for an opportunity to live in a place like this, to get to know her father and study at a new university.
To be with a man as glorious and sexy as Sevastyan.
Radio silence from Jess. Then finally: “And you’re giving the prospect actual thought?”
“I’m feeling, uh, a little pressure to stay.” I told her about the last two weeks, the insane amount of gifts, my growing phobia of mass quantities of money, and the looming danger.
When I’d finished, she said, “You haven’t mentioned the cage-fighter unicorn.”
“I guess you could say we’ve gotten . . . involved.” How to explain this confusing situation? Sevastyan’s complicated nature? “With him, everything is extreme.” Just as Paxán had said. “The man is extremely sexy, complex, infuriating. Sometimes I feel like I’m already in love with him; sometimes I feel like I should be running the other way. Bottom line, I am extremely confused.” I detailed for her the highlights of our relationship and the specter of plight-hood, then gave her a blow-by-blow (har) of what had happened in the banya.
“That is so hot! You just gave me a wetty. Fap, fap, fap.”
“Will you be serious? Talk of bondage and whipping doesn’t even make you raise a brow?”
“Please. Nothing between consenting adults fazes me.” True to form, she zeroed in on her favorite detail: “You’ve STILL got your skin tag? Come on, Nat, this is getting ridiculous. Are you thinking with your vaj?”
“No!”
“There’s your problem right there.”
“Jess, I was hoping to get some real, unvarnished advice. I worry that I’m different because of that encounter, that I’m changed. But here’s the thing: I think . . . I think he might be too.”
“You really held out?”
“Somehow. The guy told me that if he was my first lover, he’d be my last.”
She coughed. “That’s seriously heavy.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’d figured he was perfect for a vacay fling—but mafiya rules say that is not in the cards for Nat.”
“Just so we’re clear—you’re talking about having sex with only one guy for your entire life.”
“It sounds so bad when you put it like that. How many guys have you slept with, Jess? Really.”
“Fourscore? Population of a small midwestern town? Horde?”
“But do you regret any of them?”
“Nope. Each one brought something different to the table.”
I could admit to myself that Sevastyan had brought a banquet. Still . . . “It doesn’t seem very progressive of me to get off on what we did. He ordered me around and basically trussed me up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”
“Visual, Nat, visual. Now my fap, fap, fap fodder is no more. Anyway, I’m of the feminist school of thought that says ‘If mama like, then mama f**king do.’ Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are too.”
I sighed. “I am.” I’d never felt more pleasure, so how could I not view it positively? With one niggling misgiving neutralized, I moved on to a larger one. “I understand why Sevastyan doesn’t want to talk about himself—he has a past, to put it mildly—but it leaves me with a whole lot of nothing to go on. A mail-order bride would know more about her intended than I know about my potential . . . plighted, or whatever. I just wish I had more time to sort out what I feel. Jess, tomorrow I have to talk to Paxán, and the pressure is killing me. The money, the danger, this enforcer—they’re all about to make me pull my hair out.”
“I’ve never heard you this freaked out.”
Because I’d never been! “I signed on for this life”—somewhat—“and I suppose I’m obligated to pay the price when I screw up.”
In a way, this crime microcosm was its own country, with its own boundaries and customs, and now I was bound by them. I tried to explain: “I entered into this world, and it’s got its own laws. Doesn’t matter how I feel about them; I tacitly agreed to them. Then on top of that, I was explicitly warned of the consequences. Yet I still broke the rules.”
“Let’s talk about how you entered that world! Some Russian threw you over his shoulder and stole you from our house! He tackled you in a cornfield, dick-glamoured you, and you still somehow resisted—at which point he forced you onto a mafiya plane. So don’t give me this shit about how you agreed to some twatting laws.”
Dick-glamoured? Kind of fitting. “But then I fell right into line.” Dazzled by Sevastyan and Berezka. Lulled by laughter with my father . . .