Chapter 3: Boys making a bet
The fire had burned down to a pulsing heart of embers by the time the boys finally moved. The silence left by the women was a living thing, thick and expectant. Markov poked at the coals with a stick, sending a flurry of orange sparks spiraling up into the vast, star-dusted blackness.
“Fuck,” he said, the word a low, satisfied exhale.
Sasha grinned, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a spell. “That went well.”
“It went according to plan,” Markov corrected, his eyes still on the dying fire. “Phase one: break the ice. Literally.” He finally looked at the others. Vova was staring into the gloom where the women’s tent stood, a dark lump against the trees. Pasha was already quietly gathering the empty cups.
“Phase two?” Sasha asked, his voice hopeful.
“Phase two is tomorrow.” Markov stood, his body a tall shadow against the night. “Come on. Let’s turn in.”
Their tent was smaller, closer to the trees. The air inside was cool and carried the sharp, clean scent of nylon and damp earth. They unrolled their sleeping bags in the cramped space, the sounds of zippers and shifting fabric loud in the quiet. A battery lantern cast long, distorted shadows on the green walls.
Vova crawled into his bag, turning his back to the others, pretending to be asleep. He could feel the energy crackling between them, a current he wasn’t part of. He heard the rustle of Markov settling in, the soft thump of Sasha’s pillow.
“So,” Sasha whispered into the dark, the word hanging. “Who’s winning?”
A low chuckle from Markov’s side of the tent. “Winning what?”
“You know what. The unspoken contest. The main event.”
There was a beat of silence. Vova held his breath, his body rigid.
“Julia,” Markov stated, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. “It’s Julia. Did you see her out there? She’s a locked box, and I found the key. That look she gave me before she went into the tent? That wasn’t a ‘goodnight.’ That was a ‘not yet.’”
Sasha snorted. “You wish. Olga was practically feeding me lines. She’s ready to go. She’s just… playing hard to get. For show.”
“Olga’s playing with you,” Markov said, his tone dismissive. “Julia’s playing with herself. Trying to decide if she’s allowed to want it. I’m just going to help her stop thinking.”
Vova’s fists clenched inside his sleeping bag. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Help her how?” Sasha’s voice was eager, voyeuristic.
Markov’s answer came slow, painted in the dark. “She’s used to being in control. The boss. The prosecutor. She needs someone to take that from her. Out here, there are no rules. No courtrooms. Just the woods.” He paused. “I’m going to get her alone. Somewhere away from this camp. And I’m going to back her up against a tree so old it was here before her fucking country existed. I’m going to put my hands on her and remind her what she actually is. And she’s going to scream. But not from fear.”
The description was so vivid, so violently intimate, that Vova felt a hot wave of nausea. He could see it. His mother, pressed against the rough bark, Markov’s body covering hers. He bit the inside of his cheek, the coppery taste of blood a sharp anchor.
“Fuck,” Sasha breathed, impressed. “You really think you can?”
“I know I can. She’s already halfway there. You saw how she let me touch her. She’s starving for it. She just doesn’t know the menu.”
Sasha was quiet for a moment, then his voice took on a bragging edge. “Well, Olga’s not starving. She’s a gourmet. And she likes the attention. I’m going to give her a show. Make her laugh, make her feel young. Then, when she’s loose and tipsy and feeling flirty, I’m going to steer her into the water. Or into her tent. And I’m not going to be… poetic about it. I’m just going to nail her. Properly. And you know what? I think she’ll call me ‘daddy’ before it’s over. They like that shit when they get to a certain age.”
Vova’s stomach twisted. The crude, transactional confidence in Sasha’s voice was worse than Markov’s violent fantasy. It reduced Olga to a thing, a conquest with a predictable script. His Olga. The thought of Sasha’s hands on her, of his smug voice in her ear, made a white-hot anger flare behind his eyelids.
“You’re an idiot,” Markov said, but he sounded amused. “But hey, whatever works. The bet stands. First one to… conclusively prove it.”
“What’s the proof?” Sasha asked.
“Details, Sasha. Use your imagination. A sound. A souvenir. Something undeniable.”
“A week,” Sasha said. “We have a week.”
“I give it three days,” Markov replied, his voice drowsy now, saturated with certainty. “By the third night, Julia will be mine. You’ll hear her.”
The conversation lulled into silence, punctuated by the distant call of a night bird. Vova lay stiff, listening to their breathing even out. Pasha had said nothing the entire time. Vova wondered if he was asleep, or just listening, as he was.
Then, so quiet Vova almost missed it, Pasha spoke, his voice a dry, papery rustle in the dark.
“You’re both overlooking the obvious.”
“What’s that?” Markov mumbled, already half-gone.
“You’re thinking of them as separate targets,” Pasha said. “You’re competing. That’s a rookie mistake. They’re a unit. What one feels, the other mirrors. Julia’s hesitation is Olga’s entertainment. Olga’s playfulness is Julia’s permission. You want to win?” He let the question hang in the close, still air of the tent. “Don’t split them up. Corrupt the unit.”
No one replied. The profundity of it, the cold strategy, seemed to silence even Markov. Vova felt a new kind of chill seep into his bones. Pasha wasn’t just watching. He was calculating.
Soon, the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep filled the tent. Sasha snored softly. Markov let out a long, slow sigh.
Vova opened his eyes, staring at the fabric wall inches from his face. The images wouldn’t leave. Markov’s tree. Sasha’s smug grin. Olga’s laugh twisted into something else. His mother’s face, not in disapproval, but in surrender.
And underneath his revulsion, a traitorous, shameful heat uncoiled in his gut. The same heat he’d felt watching Olga peel off her clothes by the fire. The vividness of their words had painted pictures, and parts of him, parts he hated, had reacted.
He was supposed to be the good boy. The son. The invisible kid with the controller.
But out here, he was nothing. Just another spectator to his own life. While they laid bets and made plans for the women he was supposed to love, and the woman he secretly dreamed of, he was just a silent lump in a sleeping bag.
The anger solidified, cold and hard, in his chest. It pushed back the heat, the shame. It had no shape yet, no plan. But it was there.
He listened to the forest now, to the endless, indifferent rustle of the pines. Somewhere, mere meters away, Olga and his mother slept. Or perhaps they lay awake, whispering, just as the boys had.
The bet was placed. The clock was ticking.
Vova finally closed his eyes, the faces of Markov and Sasha burning against the dark. His last thought before a fractured, uneasy sleep took him was a silent, desperate vow.
Over my dead body.
Dawn was a slow, grey leaching of light through the pine canopy, doing nothing to warm the chill in Vova’s bones. He’d slept in jagged fragments, the crude echoes of Markov’s and Sasha’s voices stitching themselves into his dreams. When he unzipped the tent, the world was shrouded in a cold, dripping mist. The women’s tent was still closed.
The smell of last night’s ashes was sour in the damp air. Markov was already up, shirtless, chopping more wood with a rhythmic, punishing efficiency. Each crack of the hatchet sounded like a punctuation mark to his promises from the dark.
“Sleep okay?” Markov asked without turning around, his breath forming a cloud.
“Fine,” Vova muttered, heading towards the makeshift latrine area.
“Good. We’ll need you sharp today. Big hike to the north ridge. Lots to see.”
By the time Julia and Olga emerged, the fire was crackling again, and Pasha had water boiling for oatmeal. The morning greetings were subdued, layered with the unspoken weight of the previous night. Julia met Vova’s eyes briefly, and he looked away, the image of her against that mythical tree flashing behind his eyes. She looked tired, but there was a new alertness in her posture, a hyper-awareness of the space around her.
Olga, meanwhile, was all bright, performative energy. “My God, I feel a thousand years old,” she announced, stretching. “That water was a mistake my bones are still discussing.”
“Worth it, though,” Sasha said, a little too quickly, handing her a steaming mug. His smile was eager, rehearsed. “Right?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Olga said, her eyes glinting over the rim of the cup. She took a sip, watching him. “An experience I won’t forget.”
The plan for the day was laid out over breakfast. The north ridge promised a panoramic view of Ladoga. It was a four-hour round trip, Markov explained, through varied terrain. “We should spread out, explore at our own pace. It’s not a single-file trail.”
“Sounds perfect,” Julia said, her voice neutral. She was meticulously cleaning her bowl with a handful of damp moss.
Vova stayed close to his mother as they broke camp and started on the trail. The mist burned off, replaced by a sharp, clear sunlight that pierced the forest in dusty shafts. For the first hour, the group stayed relatively cohesive, the conversation revolving around the types of mushrooms and mosses they passed. It was painfully polite.
Then the forest opened into a rocky section, the path splitting around massive, glacial boulders.
“Hey Vova,” Sasha called, pointing at a crack in one of the granite monoliths. “Check this out. Looks like a cave formation. You into geology?”
Vova wasn’t, particularly. But the dark, narrow opening was intriguing, a secret space. He hesitated, glancing at his mother, who was listening to Pasha identify a birdcall.
“Go on,” Julia said, offering a small, distracted smile. “Explore. We’ll wait here a minute.”
It was a natural enough moment. Vova ducked into the cool, shadowed crevice, his eyes adjusting. He heard the low murmur of voices outside, then the scuff of boots on rock. When he emerged a few minutes later, blinking in the sun, the group had subtly rearranged itself.
Julia and Markov were standing ahead on the trail, looking at a map spread over a flat rock. Their heads were close together. Pasha and Olga were a little behind, Olga examining a wildflower Pasha had picked for her. Sasha was nowhere to be seen.
“Your mom’s figuring our coordinates,” Markov said without looking up. “Sasha scouted ahead. Catch up to him, will you? Make sure he doesn’t fall off a cliff.”
The instruction was casual, logical. Vova looked at his mother. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Vovochka,” she said, but her attention was on the topographic lines. “Go on. We’ll be right behind you.”
The path curved ahead, dense with young spruce. Vova moved forward, a creeping unease in his gut. He walked for five minutes, calling Sasha’s name intermittently. No answer. Just the dense, swallowing quiet of the woods. He realized he’d been distracted, and in that window, the geometry had shifted.
He turned to go back.
Back at the boulder clearing, the space was empty. Just the map, folded neatly, left on the rock.
A cold spike of adrenaline shot through him. He called out. “Mama? Olga?”
Only the forest replied. They hadn’t followed. They hadn’t gone ahead. They had vanished sideways, into the green, because Vova was easily distracted during the day, and the guys now had their chances to be alone with the ladies.
Vova stood frozen, the map’s crisp folds now a taunt. The silence was no longer peaceful; it was a vacuum, pulling at his sanity. He shouted again, his voice cracking against the trees, swallowed whole by the moss and the endless, watching pines.
Panic, sour and metallic, flooded his throat. He spun, choosing a direction at random, his boots skidding on wet stone. Every shadow became a hiding place, every rustle a whisper of conspiracy. He saw it all: Markov’s hands on his mother, Sasha’s grin in the dim light of a tent, Olga’s laugh turning sharp. His breath came in ragged pulls.
“Idiot,” he hissed at himself, crashing through a thicket of ferns. “You stupid idiot.”
A branch snapped to his left. He whirled, heart hammering against his ribs.
Sasha stepped out from behind a broad cedar, his expression one of mild, innocent surprise. “Whoa, Vova. You look like you’ve seen a bear. What’s up?”
“Where is everyone?” Vova demanded, striding toward him. “Where’s my mother?”
Sasha held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Easy, man. They’re fine. They’re just… taking a breather. Different routes, you know? The ridge isn’t a highway.” He smiled, a friendly, disarming flash of teeth. “Markov’s got the map with your mom. Pasha’s walking with Olga. It’s all cool. We’re all heading to the same viewpoint.”
The explanation was logical, smooth. It deflated Vova’s panic, leaving behind a shaky, foolish feeling. “They just… left.”
“Dude, you were in your own world in that rock cave,” Sasha said, chuckling and clapping a hand on Vova’s shoulder. “We called you. You didn’t answer. Figured you’d catch up.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. “Look, between us? This is good. This is the plan.”
Vova stared at him. “What plan?”
“Not a plan plan,” Sasha backpedaled, his eyes wide with feigned earnestness. “A… social strategy. Think about it. Your mom and Olga are amazing, but they’re in their own bubble. We’re just the background guys, the porters, right?” He squeezed Vova’s shoulder. “But if we give them a little space with the older guys, let them have some… adult conversation, it changes the vibe. They relax. Then, when we all meet up later, it’s not two separate groups. It’s one group. And you and me, we’re part of it.”
He let that hang, watching Vova process it. “You want to just be Julia’s kid the whole trip? Or do you want to be Vova? This is how you become Vova. You give them some runway.”
The words were crafty, weaving Vova’s own insecurities into a plausible, even thoughtful, narrative. It reframed the neglect as a tactical gift. It promised inclusion. Vova’s anger and fear, so potent a moment ago, now felt childish. Sasha was talking to him like a peer, like a co-conspirator.
“I just don’t want her to get lost,” Vova said, the protest weak even to his own ears.
“Markov has the map. He’s an ass, but he’s not an idiot.” Sasha’s grin returned. “Trust the process. Seriously. The best thing you can do right now is not come barging in looking for a mommy. Hike to the viewpoint. Be there already, cool and collected, when they arrive. You’ll see. The dynamic will be different. Better.”
It sounded so reasonable. A path to dignity, even. Vova nodded slowly, the tight coil in his chest loosening. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
“Awesome,” Sasha said, his relief palpable. He pointed up the trail. “This path hooks left, then climbs for about twenty minutes. You’ll see the rock outcrop. Wait for us there. I’m gonna loop back and make sure Pasha and Olga haven’t stopped to botanize themselves into a coma.” He winked. “See you at the top, Vova.”
He watched Vova start up the designated path, giving an encouraging nod before turning and melting back into the undergrowth, his steps silent and sure. The moment he was out of sight, his relaxed posture snapped into something purposeful and swift. He moved not toward where Pasha and Olga might be, but on a diagonal intercept course, a predator returning to the hunt.
Vova climbed, the physical exertion burning off his residual anxiety. Sasha’s logic settled over him, a comforting blanket. He wasn’t being sidelined. He was being strategic. He would be the one waiting, calm and in place. The image of Olga arriving, perhaps flushed from her walk, seeing him there composed against the vast sky, sent a new kind of warmth through him.
The trees thinned, giving way to granite and sky. He emerged onto the wind-scoured ridge exactly as described. The view was staggering, a panoramic sweep of Lake Ladoga like a sheet of hammered lead under the vast sky. He sat on a sun-warmed rock, his breathing steadying. He waited.
He waited for forty minutes.
The wind picked up, scouring the rock face and carrying away the last of his patience. The vast, silent landscape offered no answers, only a deepening chill. Where were they?
Down below, in the green tangle, paths had diverged.
Markov guided Julia along a deer trail that branched away from the main route, his hand hovering near the small of her back. “This cuts off a switchback,” he explained, his voice casual. “More direct.”
The trail narrowed, forcing them into single file. He moved ahead, holding back branches so they wouldn’t snap into her face. “You’re surprisingly surefooted,” he said, glancing back. “For a city girl.”
“I’m full of surprises,” Julia replied, her tone dry but not unfriendly. The woods were closing in, the light dappled and intimate.
“I’m counting on that,” he said, stopping so suddenly she almost bumped into him. He turned, blocking the path. He was close enough for her to see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the dark stubble along his jaw. “Last night. You didn’t pull away.”
She held his gaze, her prosecutor’s mask firmly in place. “From the water? It was cold.”
“From me.” He didn’t touch her. He just stood there, an immovable object in the filtered light. “You liked my hand on your face.”
Julia’s breath felt tight. She could smell the pine on him, the faint, clean sweat from the hike. “You’re very confident in your perceptions.”
“I am.” A slow smile spread. “You spend all day reading people, building cases on subtext. So read this.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a rough whisper near her ear. “I want to peel you out of these hiking clothes and see what’s underneath all that control. And you’re curious what that would feel like.”
A flush heated her neck. She should step back, reprimand him, laugh it off. She did none of those things. The isolation was absolute. “That’s a bold opening statement.”
“The defense rests,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. He finally moved, stepping aside to let her pass. But the energy between them now had a physical shape, a third presence on the narrow trail.
Meanwhile, Sasha had found Olga and Pasha stopped by a bubbling creek. “Looks refreshing,” Sasha announced, splashing water on his face with exaggerated vigor. “Bet it’s better than the lake.”
Olga smiled, perched on a mossy log. “Everything’s better with sunlight, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” Sasha puffed out his chest slightly. “So, Olga. What’s the deal with you and Julia? You two are like… a unit. It’s impressive.”
“A unit?” Olga laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “We’re just friends who know how to have fun. And avoid bear attacks.”
Pasha watched from a few feet away, silently skipping a flat stone across a placid pool.
“I think it’s more than that,” Sasha pressed, sitting on the log near her, not too close. “You give her… permission. To not be so serious. I saw it last night.”
Olga’s eyes glinted with amusement. “And what do you think she needs permission for, Sasha?”
He faltered, his bravado slipping for a second. “To… enjoy herself. To relax.” He recovered, leaning in. “You both should. Life’s short.”
“It is,” she agreed, standing and brushing moss from her pants. “And currently, I’m enjoying this walk. Are you coming, Pasha?”
Pasha nodded, falling into step beside her as they moved on. Sasha scrambled to follow, launching into a story about a university party that involved a stolen sculpture. Olga listened, nodding politely, her occasional glances at Pasha speaking volumes.
Back on the ridge, Vova checked his phone. No signal. The vastness of the view now felt mocking. Sasha’s logic, so convincing in the forest, now seemed flimsy and hollow. He’d been played.