Ivan: Chapter 13

Iwake to the sound of ice cubes shifting inside a glass, silverware clinking against a plate. I sit up in a bed far larger, warmer, and softer than the one I’ve been inhabiting lately.

The room is full of daylight. It streams in through a bank of windows on the right-hand wall—windows nearly as tall as I am, narrow and rectangular and topped with a Gothic arch.

Ivan is no longer in bed beside me. But I hear him moving around in the adjoining room. I’m already coming to know the sound of his heavy tread, his methodical movements.

I roll off the bed and grab a silk robe that hangs over the back of the nearest chair. I put it on, tying the belt at the waist.

I pad barefoot across the carpet, through the doorway to the sitting room with its hefty leather furniture and its massive fireplace.

Ivan is standing in front of that fireplace, arranging several dishes on a portable rolling table—the type they use in hotels. The table is covered in a linen tablecloth, and it’s carrying an array of breakfast foods, including a large platter of fresh-baked pastries, a bowl of fruit, bacon, sausages, a carafe of orange juice, a samovar of hot coffee, and dishes and glassware for two people.

“Nice spread,” I say approvingly.

“Still trying to earn that fifth star,” Ivan says.

He pulls up a seat for me—one of the heavy, extraordinarily comfortable leather armchairs. I sink down into it, reaching at once for the coffee.

The smell of the food is almost making me drool. I’ve barely eaten in the last thirty-six hours. Ivan probably would have brought me something sooner if I’d asked, but we were a little . . . distracted.

Well . . . he did bring me some oatmeal. A flush rises in my cheeks, remembering that particular meal.

Ivan is thinking the same thing. He gives me a wicked smile and says, “Don’t worry. This time I brought you a fork.”

I look him in the eye and grin.

“I don’t know if that’s an improvement,” I tell him. “I rather liked the service at my last meal.”

Our eyes are locked across the table, the food forgotten yet again. I know he wants to tumble back into the bed as badly as I do.

But he’s already dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. He’s got work to do today.

Ivan sees me glance down at his jacket and trousers.

“I’ve got to go out,” he says, confirming my thoughts. “I took your ideas from last night. Added a few of my own.”

I nod my head slowly. For some reason, the thought of Ivan leaving the compound on his mission of revenge against Remizov is frightening to me. Why should I care about some Bratva battle for territory in St. Petersburg? Why should I care if Ivan gets himself killed? I was about to do it myself, two days ago.

Yet I do care.

God, I’m so annoyed with myself.

My father was my only family and my only friend for almost the whole of my childhood. He was everything to me.

Then I realized he was out of his mind. His mission was madness. And my world came crashing down.

I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to put myself in that position again. I wasn’t going to tie my emotions to someone guaranteed to smash them into pieces. Really, I didn’t plan to get attached to anyone at all.

But, despite my intentions, I like Ivan. I respect him. And I’m attracted to him on a level I never thought possible.

Still, I don’t want to get drawn into his vendetta against Remizov.

My job is dangerous, but it’s impersonal.

Ivan’s hatred for Remizov is extremely personal.

So are my feelings for Ivan.

None of these things should mix.

Ivan is watching my face, trying to guess the thoughts that are spinning around and around in my head.

He has a hesitant, almost hopeful expression.

Does he want to ask me to come with him today?

Does he think because we were strategizing last night, that means I’m on his team now?

No. That’s not happening. I’m not on any team.

I sit back in my chair, putting a little more space between Ivan and me. I add a splash of cream to my coffee and stir it, keeping my eyes on the mug so I don’t have to look at the gorgeous man sitting across from me.

“Well, good luck today,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice casual. “Don’t get yourself killed. But if you do, maybe make it look like I did it. I could still get my bonus.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ivan says.

His tone is light. Still, I hear the edge of disappointment. He’s not asking for my help because he already knows I’ll say no.

He finishes the glass of water in front of his plate. He’s eaten a little bacon, but not much else. He’s keyed up. Anxious about the day ahead of him.

“I’ll see you later, then,” he says.

“Right.”

I glance around the sitting room, which is stuffed with bookshelves. So many that I would think this was the library, if I hadn’t already seen the one out in the hall.

“You have any books in English?” I ask him. “I don’t read Cyrillic very well.”

I can read it, but it’s not as relaxing for me.

“Yes,” Ivan says. “Over on that shelf.”

He points to the bookcase on the left-hand side of the fireplace, stuffed with a mixture of paperbacks and hardcovers.

“Read anything you like,” Ivan says.

“Thanks,” I say. “Well. See you.”

Ivan nods. He seems like he wants to say something else to me, but he doesn’t actually open his mouth. He just stands there looking me over from the crown of my head to the tip of my toes. His eyes are so dark and stern that his look has the same effect on me as if he were running his rough, strong hands over every inch of me.

I want to say something else to him myself. What, precisely, I have no idea.

Maybe, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.

Maybe, Can you please explain this insane effect you’re having on me?

Maybe, Don’t go. Stay here with me.

Instead, I just say, “Ivan. Seriously—be careful.”

He nods, his broad jaw firmly set.

“I will,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

I watch out the window. I see his men gathering in the yard, and then, a short time later, Ivan joining them. They get into three separate unmarked SUVs and drive through the tall stone pillars, away from the compound. The iron gates close behind them.

Ivan left with nine men, including his brother Dominik.

From what I’ve observed in my short stint prowling around the monastery, and passing the dining hall on two separate occasions, Ivan has eleven soldiers living here, besides himself. He used to have twelve, but then Remizov killed Karol—the boy I saw sleeping on the couch. The one wearing the orange running shoes.

That means that Ivan only left two guards behind today.

Which means I have an excellent opportunity to make my escape.

The funny thing is, I’m not particularly inclined to leave. I no longer think Ivan is going to kill me. And despite my teasing him, his hosting skills really are improving by the day.

Would it be so bad to lounge around his suite, reading his books, snooping through his stuff, eating more of the ridiculous amount of food he brought up for our breakfast?

When he comes back—if he comes back . . . WHEN he comes back, he can tell me how things went with Remizov. What he’s planning to do next.

And he can throw me down on his bed once more and ravage my body in that aggressive, voracious way that no man before him has managed to match.

That sounds nice, doesn’t it?

Unfortunately, I’ve never been very good at accepting what would be nicest and most comfortable for myself.

I always seem to do things the hard way.

I like Ivan. But I’m not ready to be his little pet.

So I start circling the master suite, searching for my way out.

I try the door first, of course.

It’s locked—not a particularly secure lock, but one that is alarmed and will surely send an alert to Ivan’s phone if I open it.

Now that I’m in a fully-stocked room instead of a cell, I have a lot more tools at my disposal—for instance, I’m sure Ivan’s got plenty of weapons squirreled away in here. But if I were to shoot the lock off the door, that would make a lot of noise. Enough to bring one or both of those remaining guards running.

And whatever I do, I don’t want to hurt any of Ivan’s men. Two days ago, I wouldn’t have cared. But now I know this is a family. I’m not interested in making an enemy out of any of them.

Ivan’s suite has windows on two sides. I can see the whole north and west sides of the compound from here. Specifically, I can see the roofs and stone walls. Ivan’s suite is almost the highest point of the monastery, other than two towers on the opposite side.

However, these windows aren’t a good point of egress. The original glass has been removed. The new glass includes tamper sensors and steel-wire reinforcement. They don’t open—I’d have to smash the glass and cut the wire. Again, tripping alarms.

But . . . there’s another way.

That massive fireplace.

Original to the monastery. Big enough to fit several of me inside its flue.

That’s my way out of here.

But first, clothes.

I raid Ivan’s closet, looking for the smallest clothing I can find. The vast majority of what he owns is suits, and even his casual clothes are miles too big for me. But beggars can’t be choosers. The same for thieves.

I take a dark gray hoodie, and a pair of black joggers. I roll up the pantlegs and the sleeves and cinch the drawstring of the pants as tight as I can. I take socks too. I plan to use several pairs, because there’s no way I’m going to be able to keep my feet inside any of Ivan’s shoes, but then I see my own soft leather climbing shoes lined up neatly next to Ivan’s Oxfords.

Lady Luck is with me. Maybe Ivan planned to give them back to me. Not that I’m holding my breath on him being motivated to give me any kind of clothes—he was enjoying the alternative too much.

Smiling to myself, I slip on my familiar shoes once more.

Now, I have a slight dilemma—though I saw from the yard that it was no longer snowing, it’s still going to be frigidly cold. However, if I put on too much bulk, I won’t be as maneuverable.

After some debate, I decide to wear only the hoodie and keep myself warm by running.

Which means I’m ready to go.

I pull aside the grate. Then I step inside Ivan’s massive fireplace.

Fortunately, he didn’t light it this morning. If he had, I would have had to wait for the stone to cool, which might have taken all day.

I brace my feet against one side of the flue, my palms against the other. I begin to shimmy upward in the plank position.

It’s not too bad at first. The large, rough stones provide plenty of purchase. And it’s airy enough that I’m not choking on soot.

However, the very spaciousness of its dimensions soon begins to cause problems for me. If the chimney were smaller, I could brace my back against the wall and climb with my legs alone. But I’m stretched out to my fullest length, in a position that’s difficult to hold, let alone to climb upward.

Besides that, the bizarre exertions of the last few days have exhausted me. I feel like I’ve been a captive for weeks instead of barely two days. I feel winded and shaky before I’ve barely started.

Also, I wish I weren’t looking down. The farther I climb, the longer the drop below me becomes. If my hands slip, if I lose my strength, I’m going to crash down onto a pile of logs that is anything but forgiving. I should have dragged some bedding or a pile of towels into the bottom of the chimney to break my fall.

But that would be planning for failure. I’m counting on success.

I’m not going to give up. Inch by inch I’m going to work my way up, like a reverse Santa Clause.

Thankfully, the chimney is becoming slightly narrower the higher up I climb. I’m also starting to pass the tangled mats of abandoned birds’ nests, and I see more and more daylight shining on my pale, filthy arms.

Finally, I reach the top. By now the flue is narrow enough that I can brace myself, which is lucky because I need all my strength to wrench off the grate over the chimney top.

And then I’ve done it. I’m pulling myself up onto the roof of the monastery.

The roof is steeply pitched, slippery with snow and ice. It’s a long way down to the frozen dirt of the yard.

It’s a bit of an “out of the frying pan, into the fire” situation—if the fire was freezing cold and windy. Inside the chimney I was protected from the wind. Now I feel like it’s trying to push me off the roof.

Well, the longer I stand here, the colder I’m going to get. I start making my way toward the northwest corner of the roof—it’s the point I spotted from the window, where the corner of the roof is closest to the walls encircling the monastery.

I’m hoping to jump from the roof to the wall. It’s a jump I couldn’t have made in the opposite direction. But since the roof is higher than the wall, gravity will be my friend.

I’m so focused on my destination that I don’t even notice when my feet slip out from under me. All I know is that I’m suddenly down on my ass, sliding toward the edge of the roof, gaining speed by the moment. I’m hurtling down like a toboggan, my fingers scrabbling uselessly against the slick metal. I can’t slow down at all, can’t catch hold of anything.

I feel the sickening sense of weightlessness as my body goes hurtling off the edge of the roof. With one last desperate clutch, I manage to grab the very edge of the roof and hang on with my fingertips, my legs dangling down.

Fuck, that was close.

I have now become one of those posters with the kitten dangling from the wire.

Just Hang in There, Baby.

I try to pull myself up again, but I’m so goddamned tired from the climb up the chimney.

My father used to make me do dozens of push-ups and pull-ups. Once I could do ten strict pull-ups in a row, he added a weighted belt around my waist. That’s what it feels like now—like I have a massive weight pulling me down. But it’s just my own exhausted flesh.

My arms are shaking, my fingertips cramping. Slowly I pull myself up so I’m standing on the edge of the roof once more.

And now I’m looking across an eight-foot gap to the top of the old stone wall. The gap looks a lot wider from this perspective, and the wall a lot narrower.

Staring between the two is not boosting my morale.

“You’re committed now, you idiot,” I mutter to myself.

I scrabble back up the roof a little way to give myself a running start. Then I sprint down the slope as fast as I can and launch myself into the air.