Dancing in Her Webs | Yelena Belova [1]

Chapter 16

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  Irina entered Melina's bedroom, immediately looking around as she did so. Lamps are on every surface, lighting the cozy room. She didn't expect it to be so .  .  . normal, much like the rest of Melina's "humble abode". She quite liked the simplicity of it all.

  To the right of the cloudy doors is a neatly made full-sized bed and on the opposite side of the room, another door —that Irina assumed is either the master bathroom or a closet— a dresser's to the left of that door and to the right of it in the back corner, is a wardrobe. Against the wardrobe's a loveseat with a smaller end-table on the other side, and a desk and chair next to it.

  "I came in here because—" Yelena stopped mid-sentence as Irene gently shut the door she came through, to give her and Lane some privacy from the Widow's dysfunctional family. "I thought you were Alexei."

  "No. Sorry to disappoint." The dark-haired woman jutted her thumb over her shoulder to the she'd just slipped through, "If you prefer Alexei, I can—"

  "No, no," Yelena vigorously shook her head. "Please don't."

  The corners of Irina's lips turned up as she inched forward some, " 'Don't worry' .  .  ." she mocked the many times Yelena's told her those same two words, their eyes meeting, " .  .  . I was just kidding." The bottom of her Chuck's squeaked softly against the floor as she stopped in front of the blonde-haired Widow, and she held her side, giving her nervous hand something to do. "I know this is kind of a stupid question, but—"

  "Don't, Irene."

  The dark-haired woman immediately raised both hands up at her sides, "Switzerland." Yelena shook her head, hiding her smile against the rim of the Vodka before downing some. "But if you were to answer and not be this closed-off, stubborn person, you'd say 'you're fine'; though you and I both know that's not true."

  Yelena didn't bother to argue —much to Irina's pleasure— as she lowered the mostly empty bottle from her lips. But she remained silent.

  Irina came to the Widow's right-hand side and steadily lowered herself to the hardwood floor, groaning softly and holding her side as she did so. "Before you say anything," she kept her gaze on the dresser as she sprawled her legs out straight in front of herself, "no, we don't have to talk. We can sit in complete silence, if that's what you prefer."

  After a moment of silence passed, something hard's tapped on Irina's bicep. She looked over at Yelena, "Would you like some?" She offered the Vodka.

  Irene smiled as she took the bottle and sipped the clear liquid that burned her throat. "Mm, you're right." She cleared her throat and coughed softly twice, "Russian alcohol is better. But I'd rather have this mixed with something. Like, sprite or pineapple juice."

  Yelena chuckled amusedly, unsurprised. "Of course you said that."

  Both of Irina's brows scrunched, "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Well .  .  ." Lane took the bottle from her and placed it up on the bedside-table, but not before taking another swig of it, " .  .  . A, is obvious —you're American. B, you are 20-years-old and had your first drink two nights ago, so you don't even know what 'alcohol' is. C, there is something called Strawberry Vodka. D—"