“Troublesome man,” muttered Rov.
Rurik sent a sharp glare over his shoulder. “I believe chaperone is meant to be silent.” At Rov’s low growl, Saga couldn’t help but snicker.
“I’ve discovered that even when life seems like a straight road, there is always the chance of unexpected twists.” Being in this passageway with two Zagadkian dignitaries in the arse end of the night was certainly something Saga could never have predicted.
She felt Rurik’s keen gaze on her skin, as though he noted each minute movement. “You are not alone in this.”
“Oh?” asked Saga. “I suppose you thought Íseldur would be filled with bear-worshiping warriors and meek women? Are we not what you expected?”
“Not at all.”
She knew he spoke of thekingdom, but a shiver ran down her spine all the same. They reached the end of the passageway, climbed a set of stairs and crept into the western wing through a concealed doorway. After another minute, they stood before an iron-hinged door.
“The Ravine Tower,” she whispered. Releasing her arm, Rurik tugged on the handle, but it did not budge. Saga watched in mild amusement as he pressed his ear to the wood. The man worked quickly, drawing two sharp instruments from his pocket and inserting them into the keyhole. With a few deft twists of his fingers, he had the door open.
“And now,” said Rurik, pulling her through the door. Reluctantly, he held it for Rov. “I will show you how to do it.”
Rov settled on the ground with a grumble, his back leaned against the wall. “I give him five minutes,” Rurik said with a sly smile, “before old man is fast asleep.”
Saga shook her head. “Are you ever serious?”
“There are some things I will never joke about.” His look grew intense, eyesgleaming in the torchlight, before Rurik turned to the door. “Now, we will begin.”
And as Kassandr Rurik showed her how to pick a lock, Saga decided that there were indeed many twists in her seemingly straight road.
“Rotate bolt,”repeated Rurik.
“I am!” hissed Saga, throwing the lock picks on the floor in a rage. Rov snorted, his head lolling to the side as he settled back into sleep. An hour now, she’d been at this; an hour without success. And all Rurik had to say wasrotate bolt, over and over, as if saying it for the thousandth time would suddenly work.
“Tvoy gnev prekrasen3,” he murmured, bending to gather the lockpicks.
“Tvoy gnev prekrasen!” snapped Saga, hopeful it was the most heinous of insults she’d flung back at him.
He chuckled, straightening. “You do not want to be saying that to me, Winterwing.” Rurik paused. “You are saying this quite well. Are you certain you do not know Zagadkian?”
She blew out an irritated breath. “I have an aptitude for languages,” she said. “But apparently, not for locks.”
“Is easy.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but the words dried up on her tongue as the warmth of his body spread along her back, the strength of his arms sliding along hers. Gently, Rurik placed the lock picks into her hands, his large palms settling on the backs of her gloves.
His voice was close to her ear, low and soft. “Slide it through keyhole, finding notch in the bolt.” Rurik’s hand pressed down over hers, and Saga was so distracted by the unyielding pressure of his chest against her back that she nearly forgot to pay attention. But she felt it then, as the lock pick sank into a depression in the bolt.
“Now,” whispered Rurik, “we push just here,” the pressure of his hand increased, “and rotate like so.” His hand twisted hers, the bolt rotating with a scratch, then falling with a thud.
A breath gusted out of her. “You make it seem easy.”
“With practice, is easy.” He stepped back, and she missed his warmth already. Swallowing, Saga tried to force coherent thoughts into her mind. She glanced at Rov, leaned against the wall with his head tilted at an ungodly angle, drool gleaming at the corner of his mouth. As Rurik had predicted, the man hadn’tlasted five minutes. And Saga was beginning to feel fatigue creep up on her as well.
“My hands have begun to ache,” she said softly. Turning, she looked up at Rurik. “I suppose I should not expect miracles.”
He looked down at her expectantly, and Saga’s hand found the completed map in her pocket. Some part of her didn’t want to hand it over—once he had it, what need had he for her? But she had things to accomplish, and this man had proven far too distracting. Her resolve hardening, Saga thrust the map at him.
His throat bobbed as he took it. “My thanks.” But he didn’t move, and when Saga looked up at him, Rurik had that same look on his face—as though he fought against himself. A heavy exhale escaped him. “Saga.” His voice had shifted. There was weight to her name. Meaning she could not untangle.
“You are uncommon. No, is wrong word. You arerare. Not what I expected.” He stepped nearer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. She found herself incredibly attuned to his size. His nearness. His masculine scent.
“Khotel by ya posmotret’, kak ty letish’ svobodno4.”
