FYI, svoloch = bastard or asshole
Anya groaned out loud, nearly intoxicated as the pickled fish, potatoes and other buttery, flaky delights crowded her belly to the brink.
The hunger had been there for so long, lingering like an itch she could never properly scratch no matter how many scraps she could spirit away into her pockets. Food - filling, savory, delicious food - was a luxury she'd never been able to partake of until now. And she was overwhelmed.
Grinning and more than a little drowsy, she slumped deeper into the cushions of her curvy dining chair with a sigh, sucking the last bit of gravy from her fingertips. She'd just caught a droplet that was making its way down her wrist with a swipe of her tongue when she looked up and caught Dimitri's eyes. Again.
A belch erupted from her chest without warning, loud enough for the couple dressed in furs and diamonds seated at the table nearby to glance over, their prim features pinched in disgust.
Dimitri and Vladimir gaped at her in disbelief, but it was Dimitri who hissed, "For the love of God, Anya."
"What?" Anya laughed. "I didn't mean to; it just happened."
He looked over his shoulder at their fellow dining car patrons still watching their exchange and threw them a tight smile. His eyes moved over the two full plates of food she'd finished mere minutes ago, then flashed at her.
"Let me ask you a question," he said, leaning forward, his voice low and cold. "Where are you going?"
This time Anya trapped the belch behind her lips and swallowed it down before answering him. "What are you talking about?"
Vladimir laced his fingers behind his head and settled in with a chuckle.
"It's a simple question."
"To Paris, I guess," Anya answered, her shoulders lifting in a shrug as she nibbled on a piece of parsley.
"Right." The chandelier swinging above their heads threw flecks of light over the little round table, some gathering on Dimitri's steepled hands or disappearing into the spaces between his fingers. "And who are you going to see?"
Anya pursed her lips and tried to look coy. "The Queen of England?"
"Don't be cute," Dimitri warned, his hands condensing into balled fists on either side of his plate.
"Okay, okay. The other old woman."
"Exactly."
"What 'exactly' is your point? Other than being a svoloch', I mean." Anya felt so satisfied she was giddy, giggling through her wince when her stomach heaved. She'd eaten far too much, and too quickly. Still, the pie on the tray that was passing by in the hands of one of the servers made her mouth water all over again...
"My point is that you can't dine with the Dowager like you did just now," Dimitri said, scolding her. "Do you see our plates?" Only half listening, Anya looked back at him as he gestured at the still artfully plated dishes on his side of the table, the trim gleaming gold in the light. Hers, on the other hand, looked like a murder scene. "We've barely eaten half, and we're two grown men. You wolfed down your first of two plates in five minutes flat."
"I'm thinking I shouldn't have done that," Anya said under her breath. A riot of cramps flared up in her stomach and made her shift in her seat for a more comfortable position.
"Actually, there are a lot of things you shouldn't be doing. Like having your elbows on the table, or sitting with your feet in your chair. Or belching like a drunk. Or licking your hands clean like a damn cat."
Shooting daggers at him, Anya slid her feet back to the carpet before giving her middle finger a long, slow lick up the side. "So I shouldn't be doing that, right?" she taunted. "Is that what you're saying?"
Dimitri looked uncomfortable for a split second before he laughed without any humor at all.
"I've never seen a girl with more class."
"Oh, Dimitri." Anya crossed her arms on the table and propped her chin on her forearm. Flashing him a smile more acidic than the lemon slice in her glass of water, she said, "Do you ever get dizzy way up there on your high horse?"
"Not usually. But I should probably watch my horse, shouldn't I? If I'm not careful, you just might eat it."
Anya sat back on a gasp of outrage and straightened her spine as a disgusting, smug smile spread across Dimitri's face. She hadn't expected such a barbed retort. Honestly, she couldn't understand why he was so irritable in the first place, but if he was in no mood for shenanigans, neither was she.
"If you want to do this right, you need our help," Dimitri continued, studying the silver geometric pattern of the tablecloth. He turned a fork over and over in his hand.
"I didn't ask for your help," Anya snapped. Sudden embarrassment fired heat into in her cheeks, infuriating her even more. "Not with that."
"You did the minute you got on this train." He was cool, barely ruffled except for the smirk tugging at his mouth, and that only made her want to lunge across the table at him that much more.
When he flipped his eyes up to look at her they stared at each other, eyes on fire, neither of them blinking as they engaged in a battle of wills.
Somewhere in the haze of her stomach pains and rage, Anya realized this was the first time she had actually looked at Dimitri and saw the man, not just the entity with some vague features that had her ticket to Paris in his pocket. There were clean lines to his face, and the skin was perfectly smooth except for a silvery scar above his right eyebrow and the hitch in the bridge of his nose she noticed in passing once before. She supposed the strength of his jaw and symmetry of his features might make him handsome to some women - but certainly not her. His brows were heavy, the same rusty brown as the hair that continually flopped into his face. They seemed to droop under their own weight over eyes that were the color of dead leaves. It was fitting. He didn't have to try very hard to look like he was brooding, which Anya had quickly surmised was his general state of being.
He put the fork down and his mouth relaxed, revealing the curvature of his lips. They were full and turned down slightly at the corners, straddling the line between sensual and menacing. An odd sensation took hold of Anya, a sort of pressure, like her lungs were being squeezed by some unseen hand. This time, it was she who looked away.
She heaved a theatrical sigh and threw her hands up. "Fine, Dimitri. Teach away. It's not like I have anything better to do at the moment."
An uneasy silence reigned for a long moment. Anya chewed her lip and glared at the white flecks in her fingernails. Vladimir pinched off another piece of his roll and chewed thoughtfully, watching Anya and Dimitri in silence, as usual.
"We do this my way," Dimitri finally said softly, his eyes bordering on apologetic, but not quite.
Seething, Anya crossed her arms over her chest. "It's not like I have much of a choice, do I?"
"You always have a choice." Dimitri had picked up the fork again, this time spinning it slowly on one of its tines.
"Well, I wish you would choose right this second to either shut your mouth or get on with it."
Something passed over his face and he seemed to relax his battle stance. "Fair enough."
Vladimir beckoned a uniformed waitress and as she came near, Anya noticed the corner of a wad of bills peeking out of his fist. The girl leaned down a bit and acknowledged him. Vladimir whispered something in her ear that made her blush and glance around nervously before he slipped the money into her hand. He looked at her backside appreciatively as she retreated before he turned to Anya. "The young lady is going to give us some privacy. Shall we begin?"
Dimitri acknowledged him with a nod, never taking his eyes away from Anya. Then he was all business. "First things first - sit up. And let me see how you were holding your fork? No, no...it's not a spear. Flip it over. No, left hand. Now, take your knife in your right. Yes, like that. That's how a Grand Duchess cuts her meat."
Anya bit her tongue and followed their instructions with clenched teeth. Dimitri and Vladimir took turns rambling on and on about everything, from what to do with her napkin to which utensils were used for which course of a meal. It went on like that for the next hour, long past Anya's usual threshold for sitting still. But she forced quiet down into her body, even succumbing to Vladimir's charm and becoming his puppet as he placed her hands wherever they needed to be in the course of the lesson. As long as he was in charge of her limbs, she couldn't stab Dimitri in the eye with that fork and get them booted off the train.
The staff, having previously cleared the room of other diners, had just returned to begin to setting up for the next meal when Anya shot out of her chair in the middle of one of Dimitri's long-winded explanations.
Dimitri froze with the dessert fork he had been demonstrating with still in his hand. "Wait a minute, you haven't -
Anya was already turning away from the table, panic making her movements uncoordinated and jerky. Her meal was staging a revolt, rising up in violence as she scrambled for the nearest open receptacle.
She didn't make it.