“That’s the worst part,” she says finally. “I know.”
She walks out and closes the door behind her.
I stand there in my destroyed study, surrounded by broken glass and scattered papers and the wreckage of my mother’s violin, and I don’t move for a very long time.
ANYA — Volkovskaya Mansion, 18:34
Roman is naked from the waist up when I walk out of the bathroom, andfuck, he looks good. I hate that that’s my first thought instead of something about the forty thousand people my chemistry is going to kill.
He’s standing at the dresser selecting cufflinks like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, like the lamplight isn’t hitting every muscle in his back at the perfect angle.
“You’re flexing,” I accuse, crossing to the wardrobe to put distance between us. “It’s not going to make me forget what you did.”
“I’m not trying to make you forget.” He turns around, shirt in his hand. “I’m trying to remind you who keeps you safe.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“You need it more than you need oxygen.” He closes the distance in two strides, backing me against the wardrobe before I can grab a dress. “And you hate that, don’t you?”
“You can put your shirt on any time now.”
He turns around with his shirt still in his hand, the absolute bastard, and his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m thinking about how many ways I could kill you with what’s in this room.” I yank open the wardrobe harder than necessary. “Letter opener. Drape cord. That ugly decanter.”
“It’s a Fabergé original.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Holy Grail, I could still bash your skull in with it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He finally—finally—shrugs into his shirt, the white cotton settling across his shoulders, and try to pretend I’m not disappointed. “Too messy.”
“That’s just one idea out of many.”
He starts walking toward me, and I hold my ground because I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affects me.
“The fact that you haven’t yet,” he says, “means something.”
“It means Mishka needs me alive.”
“It means you needmealive. For Mishka. For the lab. For this thing between us, you keep pretending it’s a survival strategy.”
“It is a survival strategy.”
“Then why haven’t you stopped staring at my chest?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Get dressed.” I shove past him toward the vanity because I don’t want to not be looking at him right now. “We’ll be late.”
“We’ll be late when I say we’re late.”
He catches my arm and turns me around, and suddenly his hand is on my jaw, and he’s tilting my face up, and his eyes are burning into mine with that intensity that makes my stupid, traitorous body go hot and liquid.
“I’m not trying to make you forget,” he says, voice dropping low. “I’m not trying to make you forgive me. I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to hate me tomorrow.”
