Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Markov sits upright, constantly scanning our surroundings as if looking for a potential threat while he keeps his facade in place. I guess that’s his job. Is he always this vigilant?
My eyelids are heavy, but I try to keep them open. I don’t want to miss anything. As we approach the campus in Moscow, the vibrant energy of the city excites me. The streets are alive with a mix of people—students hurrying along with laptop bags and backpacks, street vendors selling foods, and business professionals in suits and skirts hurrying from one place to the next. I notice Moscow’s famous metro buses and trams snaking their way through the crowd.
For the first time, I’m glad I have Markov with me. It’s overwhelming to think of being totally alone.
I stifle a yawn. I like my sleep and hardly got any last night. The car is warm, and Markov’s like an electric heater beside me. I fight to stay awake but still find Markov gently shaking my shoulder as we arrive.
“We have housing adjacent to the dorms for our grad students in specialty fields. It’s nothing fancy and really, glorified dorms, but they’re at least semi-private.”
I look at Markov, but he doesn’t respond. I discreetly take out my phone and type a message in the translator app I downloaded. I have to tell him what I told her. He has to be able to play the part.
“I’m sorry, but there was a miscommunication. For now, just for now, you have to pretend to be my husband. Okay?”
I stare at the foreign words in front of me, unable to read them. Is that really what I want to say? Do I have a choice? I translate the words back and forth until I’m satisfied and I have no more time. We’re almost there.
I tap Markov’s shoulder and show him the translation before I lose my courage.
I watch him read it. What will he do? What if he insists on telling the truth? Within seconds, his eyes narrow, and then he gestures for my phone. I nod, handing it over. He switches over to the Russian keyboard option. I watch, my mouth dry. My cheeks heat with embarrassment.
I stare when he shows me the phone and his reply. It feels somehow intimate communicating with him like this.
Why didn’t you tell the truth?
I can almost hear the admonition in his rough, deep voice, his tone harsh.
I type in a response and hit the translator button again. It’s a clumsy way of communicating but it’s all we’ve got.
I don’t want them to know you’re my bodyguard!
I expect him to want to type out another message, shoves my phone back to me, then he gives one sharp cut of his hand to dismiss me and looks out the window.
I turn away and roll my eyes as we pull up to the college.
I never lived at college because of my strict upbringing, so a college atmosphere is quite new to me. The college itself is flanked on either side by imposing buildings, the architecture at once intricate and modern. My heart thumps. I’m really here. I made it.
“Oh, it’s beautiful.”
“Where did you grow up?” Jake asks me.
“New York.”
“Ah, you’re a city girl. I imagine Moscow and New York are still very different places.”
“Yes, but not all of New York is city. I spent some time in Upstate New York and more recently in a suburb just outside the city itself. Still, it is definitely not Moscow.”
I shrug and feel a heavy hand on my thigh. The doors to the car open, and everyone begins to exit, but I take a minute to look up at Markov. “What?” I whisper.
He gestures for my phone again, scowling, and taps something out on the Russian keypad before handing it back to me. I hit translate.
Do not trust.
Ah, of course my bodyguard’s telling me not to trust another man. I roll my eyes at him and tuck my phone in my pocket. I exit the door opposite him.
He predictably grabs our bags, a few at a time, and lines them up on the sidewalk. Irina says something in Russian. She gushes and praises, but he only shrugs and asks a question in return.
“He is such a gentleman,” she says in English. “It will be so refreshing to have such a nice married couple here with us! Come, I’ll show you your room. You must be so tired.”
As we walk, Jake walks beside me. “I’ve read your work,” he says in a low voice. He gives me a crooked smile, and I’m starting to wonder if pretending Markov is my husband was a good idea. What if I meet someone here? After all my sheltering, I’ve never had a chance like this before.
“Have you?”
“Yes,” Jake says. I notice when he smiles, there’s a little dimple on his cheek. “Your peer-reviewed analysis on improvised tourniquet techniques in field trauma care was exceptionally well done. I was impressed with the risks you took by applying unorthodox methods and the results you achieved. Truly impressive work.”