“No… stay with me,” I plead. “I want to take a bath but… I don’t want to be alone.”
Pavlenko looks like his mind is in turmoil over this. Finally, he concedes. “Okay. I will stay in the bathroom with you, but I won’t look, klyanus.”
He gently helps me to my feet and leads me down a little hallway to his bedroom. He seats me on his smooth, simple gray bedspread while he goes into the adjoining bathroom to start a bath, leaving the door open so I can see that he’s still there. I am astounded by his tenderness, his patience with me. I had him all wrong when I first met him, when I felt like I was so small and insignificant versus his tall, broody gorgeousness.
Now I feel like I’ve seen more of his true sides, the part that really is a hero. Boris had said that to Maksim, that they were rebuilding an empire that he’d eliminated... And that thing about the French woman... My heart breaks, thinking about Maksim saving a woman from those brutes, only for Boris to track her down. I wonder if it’s weighing on Maksim’s conscious as well...
I look around at his simplistic bedroom. Everything is neat and orderly, almost to a military standard. He has everything he needs, and not much more than that, but instead of looking shabby or empty, the room just looks neat. It reflects the fact that he works hard and doesn’t expect much from his life outside of work. In a way, it makes me a little sad for him — while this place is comfortable enough, there isn’t much personal touch.
He walks over, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and helps me into the bathroom. He shifts his weight awkwardly when I stand looking at the claw foot tub filled with lightly scented water. Steam rises from its slightly pinkish surface. I wonder what kind of soap or oil he’s put in the water. It almost makes me smile, the thought of this muscular, imposing man keeping frilly bath accoutrements on hand.
“I’ll stand over here and face away,” he says, a twinge of nerves in his voice.
“Okay. Thank you,” I answer softly. He steps away and faces the doorway while I gingerly strip out of my white dress, panties, and bra. I glance back over my shoulder anxiously to make sure he’s still not looking. He isn’t. Of course.
I carefully climb into the hot bath, wincing when the scented water reaches my wounded knees. I see Pavlenko almost turn around at the sound of my pained gasp, but he catches himself in time. Sinking down into the warm water, I close my eyes and sigh. I lower myself completely until my hair is totally submerged, my face barely poking out of the water. I stare at the smooth white ceiling, the miniature chandelier dangling far above me. I’m so exhausted, so overwhelmed. All I want is to soak in this fragrant bath and let the water wash away all traces of my horrible experience. But I know better than to expect that. It will take more than a hot bath to scour those dark memories from my mind. My body, however, is relieved to finally get some physical comfort. Still, my stomach growls, and I realize that I haven’t eaten since those crepes last night at the Champ de Mars.
With Maggie. My heart plummets and I feel tears burning in my eyes. Guilt floods my thoughts. I hate myself for being safe and sound here while my friend is out there enduring unspeakable horrors.
“Olivia,” says Pavlenko, and I jump a little at his voice.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to order us some food. What would you like?”
I sit up and pull my knees up to my chest, biting my lip. “Oh, I don’t know. I-I can’t think of anything like that right now,” I admit weakly. He nods, still facing away from me.
“I understand. I’ll take care of it,” he says, taking a cell phone out of his pocket. He dials a number and places an order entirely in rapid French while I simply stare at my own toes wrinkling in the water. For the next half hour we remain this way, Pavlenko standing guard at the door while I curl up in the tub. Finally, the food arrives and he goes to retrieve it, leaving me alone for the first time since he rescued me. But only after asking if I was okay.
“There’s a robe hanging for you on the back of the door,” he instructs. “I’ll set up our meal in the living room. Take your time. As long as you need. I will wait for you.”
Once he’s gone, I slowly rise out of the now-lukewarm water and wriggle into the gigantic, Pavlenko-sized white robe. The sleeves are comically long, falling several inches past my hands, and the bottom of the robe drags the floor. I feel like a kid playing dress-up, but I refuse to put on my white dress again. After the events that transpired while I was wearing it… I want nothing more than to burn it.
I trot out to the living room to see a full, impressive French meal arrayed on the coffee table, complete with croissants, jam, cream, cheese, fruit, olives, and a tray of thinly sliced meats. My stomach growls at the smell and sight of it, and without a single word I immediately sit down and start eating. Pavlenko watches me silently, sizing me up, like he’s still worried I might totally break down and fall apart any second now.