“Saying what?”
“Our girl.”
Pyotr rebounds off the couch. “I’m sure Dierdre needs help in the kitchen. Point me the way.”
“I have no idea.” We didn’t stay here long enough for me to get the layout.
“Good enough for me,” he replies. He stops, turns left toward the foyer, then pivots in the other direction.
“You have no fucking clue how this feels,” Aleksander says so quietly, I almost don’t hear it.
Turning my attention back to my brother, I watch as he paces the room like a caged animal. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Having Syn livid with me? Trust me, I know exactly how that feels.” She ripped my heart out and took it with her when she left us after finding those pictures of Malin. Pictures that Aleksander planted in her journal. I still owe him for that.
He stops, his fists balled at his sides. “You don’t know how it feels to want someone so badly, knowing they will never be yours. To be in love with someone your entire life, knowing they will never love you back because they will always be in love with someone else.”
I’d almost feel sorry for him…if it weren’t for the fact that what he just said was so fucking wrong. What I should do is let him continue to believe it. But I can’t. Not anymore. I’m done with denying the inevitable. It’s like trying to stop the sun from rising every morning.
“Then you’re completely blind.”
We turn at the same time when Syn walks in. Her cheeks and nose are as red as her hair from being outside.
“Where is Viktor now?”
Aleksander checks his wristwatch. “At this second? Somewhere we can’t get to him.”
“What was your grand plan?” she asks with a hefty dose of acerbity.
“I was going station myself across the street, high enough up, so I could take him out as soon as he got out of the car. I can’t do that now.”
Her hands go to her hips, elbows bent. It’s her “you’re pissing me off” stance. “What about later when he leaves?” Aleksander cocks his head, and Syn becomes exasperated. “Oh my god. You really didn’t consider any alternatives, did you?” She runs agitated fingers across her forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ. All the meticulous planningyouinsisted had to be done, and thenyou decide to be a jackass and rush off to get yourself killed. And for what?”
I don’t say a word. This isn’t my fight, and I won’t stop Syn from beating the crap out of him. He deserves it.
Aleksander’s posture changes from contrition to indignation. “For you! Everything I do and have done has always been for you!”
She takes a menacing step forward, and I’m smart enough to take a step back, away from the impending explosion that’s about to happen.
“Don’t you dare put this on me! You will not use me as your excuse or justification to do stupid, careless shit. Because if you were really doing it for me, then you would know…” She shakes her head, refusing to say the words she’s not willing to admit yet. “You know what? Fuck you. Do whatever the hell you want. I already have one child to take care of. I don’t need the added stress of dealing with a man who acts like one.”
Oh, fuck, I think when he advances on her. Dierdre is going to flip out if they break anything.
“Aleks, man, don’t—” I try to advise but his reaction time is faster than my warning.
Grabbing Syn by the neck, he forcibly backs her up until they collide with the wall, rattling the framed oil painting. Leaning in, he says, “I am not a child,pevchaya ptitsa.”
Her blue eyes eclipse black, and there’s a brief flicker of unconcealed desire that flashes over her face before it morphs into indignant outrage.
“Then stop behaving like one.” She jabs two fingers into the sternocostal head tendon that stretches from his pectoral to his shoulder, and his arm drops like dead weight.
She tried it on me once when I asked her to teach me her pressure point shit. I lost feeling for an hour. Apparently,Aleksander doesn’t suffer the same side effect and quickly recovers, blocking her when she pushes him away.
Like watching a ballet of controlled violence, they exchange a coordinated series of attacks and counterattacks as they try to get the upper hand over the other. The curved legs of a Queen Ann chair scrape across the wood floor when she ducks under his arm, grabs his wrist, and twists. He quickly pivots, his hand catching her waist in the motion, and they come together, their bodies pressed flushed in something more like a lover’s dance than of two people trying to murder each other.
But I see exactly what it is.
Foreplay.
