A week later the cold was so bitter that the space heater’s red coils seemed like a bad joke. It was about ten at night and all the girls were out. Vanna was huddled on her cot in sweats and a blanket that Sergei had managed to rustle up. It was ironic—if she’d still been turning tricks, she wouldn’t be cold. She was hungry, too, and about to ransack everyone’s belongings for a candy bar or cookies when a car pulled up outside.
The door slammed, and a man came in through the back. She recognized the burly bull of a man: one of Vlad’s bodyguards. He took a look around but gave no sign he recognized Vanna. Then he went back out. Another car door opened and closed, and a moment later, Vlad strolled in. Vanna’s pulse sped up—she couldn’t help it—and a kernel of hope took root. Was he here to take her back? Forgive her? She scrambled off the bed and started toward him.
The look on his face made her halt midstride. No crooked smile tonight. No enthusiasm, not even a glint of desire. His expression was blank. Vanna took a step back and ran one hand, then the other, up and down her arms. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this cold.
“They say you try to run.” His voice was as neutral and flat as his face. But that, she’d learned, was Vlad at his most dangerous. He was sizing up his prey. Making adjustments. Soon he would strike. “After how I treat you, Vanna?”
She hung her head, hoping a sign of submission would win him over.
He reached his hand out toward her. She cringed, expecting him to slap her—or worse. But all he did was finger one of her earrings.
She couldn’t meet his eyes. When he’d given the earrings to her, he’d ordered her to wear them all the time. She did. Now she waited for him to tear them off her ears, waited for the excruciating pain and blood and bits of skin that would follow. Instead he dropped his hand.
“Look at me.”
Slowly she raised her head. His eyes were chunks of ice. There was no anger in them, but no forgiveness, either. She could have been a chair or table as far as he was concerned. She swallowed. Rage she could deal with. Lust, too. But this—this glacial emptiness—terrified her, and her composure evaporated. His presence sucked out her teenage arrogance, cynicism, and know-it-all attitude, as if he’d run a huge vacuum cleaner over her psyche. The only thing left was fear, and an overwhelming desire to make it go away. Maybe if she tried to please him, tried hard, she could regain her position as Vlad’s chosen.
She tried to muster some of her flirty ways, but they wouldn’t come. Instead the words slipped out. “I’m sorry.”
“I could kill you,” he murmured after a long pause. “No one would know. No one would care.”
Maybe he should. That would solve her problems. What did she have to live for if he didn’t want her anymore?
“You like that, wouldn’t you?”
She jerked her head up. Was he reading her mind?
He closed in. This time she was sure he would strike her. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her mother had predicted it. Her teachers, too. She would come to no good. She was just a two-bit junkie whore who gave boys blow jobs in their cars. She deserved whatever was coming.
But Vlad’s punch didn’t come. She felt him cup her chin in his hand. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her, his eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to figure something out. Finally, a tiny crooked smile curled his lip.
“But I no kill you.”
She swallowed, unsure whether the wave of emotion rolling through her was relief or regret.
“You pregnant.”
Again, she was taken aback. How did he know? “Does—does that make you happy?”
Another crooked smile. Then he turned and called out to Sergei, who appeared from the depths of the warehouse. Vlad spoke in Russian. Sergei stole a glance at Vanna, disappeared, then returned with a cardboard box, which he handed to Vlad.
Vlad tossed it to Vanna. She didn’t catch it fast enough, and it fell to the floor. “You know what to do.”
She bent down and picked up the box. A pregnancy test kit. Of course he could tell she was pregnant. If he’d impregnated as many girls as Jenny claimed, he would know the signs. And if he didn’t, Zoya would.
He waved a hand toward the bathroom. “You bring back stick.”
Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom, clutching the white plastic strip with a pink cross on one end, indicating a positive result. She passed it to him. He examined it, then nodded. “This is gut.”
She tried out a smile. “Yes. It is. I’m having your baby.” She hugged herself, pretending to be happy. “Can you forgive me, Vlad? I’ll never leave you again, I promise. I just want to have our baby. Together.” She wondered how many other girls had said the same thing. Would it make any difference?
Vlad looked around. She followed his gaze. No one had cleaned up the warehouse. The blankets on the cots were messy and crumpled; clothes and toiletries were scattered; trash littered the floor. But Vlad’s expression was absorbed. He wasn’t registering the scene. He was planning something, working things through.
Finally he turned back. “You want back to farm?”
She nodded. “More than anything in the world.”
He walked over to a small mound of trash on the floor and picked up a crumpled sandwich wrapper from the deli. He held the edge of it between his fingertips, as if it was contaminated by dangerous microbes, and backtracked to Vanna.
“You do this, I take you back.”
“Anything.” She smiled in a way she hoped was both seductive and submissive.
“Take.” He dangled the wrapper in front of her.