“What about it?”
“Stories my mother used to tell. Family history.”
So, he does, sharing tales of great-aunts who scandalized society and grandfathers who built business empires. Stories about family gatherings, holiday traditions, summer parties, and winter celebrations.
But I can barely focus on the words as he touches me, when his voice gets rougher every time I adjust myself to get closer to him.
“It sounds wonderful.”
“It was, mostly. Complicated, but wonderful.”
“Complicated how?”
“Hard to separate family love from family loyalty when the family business involves activities that most people consider criminal.”
I curl closer against his side, enjoying the warmth of his body and the rumble of his voice as he continues sharing memories. “Did you ever want to do something else?”
“When I was young, sure. I wanted to be an architect, believe it or not.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because family expectations don’t leave much room for alternative career paths.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret some things. But not ending up here with you.”
The honesty in his voice makes me look up at him. “Why?”
“Because if you’d met me under normal circumstances, you probably would have run in the opposite direction.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I would have been intrigued by the danger.”
“Is that what you’re feeling now? Intrigued by the danger?”
“I’m intrigued by you. The danger is just context.”
“Context that could get you killed.”
“That’s what makes every moment feel more important.”
Dmitri runs his hands up and down my arm as he asks, “Katya, what do you want from this? From us?”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Tomorrow. Next week.”
“Right now, I want to stay where we are. Tomorrow, I want to wake up next to you and make coffee together and maybe explore more of the estate grounds. Next week...” I shrug. “Next week seems too far away to plan for.”
“Good answer.”
We sit in a comfortable silence while the evening settles around us. Outside, I hear owls calling from the forest and the distant sound of water moving over rocks. Inside, the house creaks with the settling sounds of old wood and lived-in spaces.
“This is the first time I’ve felt completely safe since the accident,” I realize aloud.
“Safe from what?”
“From questions I can’t answer. From expectations I might not be able to meet. From the feeling that everyone knows more about who I am than I do. Right now, it doesn’t matter who I was before. All that matters is who I am right now, in this moment, with you.”
