She pulled her hand away, and everything in her body recoiled at the thought. “I don’t desire punishment, Oleg.”
“Apology then.” His jaw looked like it would break. Oleg hated to apologize, and she could count the number of times he’d forced himself to do it over the past five years on one hand.
Three. It was three times. Total.
“I feel the hurt in your blood, and it is because of my words,” he said carefully. “I would make it right with you.”
She kept her voice at the level of a whisper. “I want to know what is wrong with you. I want to know what has happened in the week that we have been apart that has made you so cold.”
But even as she said it, there was nothing cold about his eyes. “Fine.” He took her hand and nearly dragged her out of the library.
They returnedto the second floor of the palace, but this time they walked past the glittering double doors that led to the knyaginya’s quarters and down a long hallway, past the double doors of the knyaz’s rooms and into what looked like a dead-endhallway with a decorative table holding a set of three elaborately jeweled eggs under a display light.
Tatyana blinked. “Are those?—”
“Yes.” Oleg turned to the right, glanced around to make sure they were alone, then pushed a pink painted flower carved into the wall.
A hidden door slid smoothly to the side.
In less than a second, they were in what appeared to be a tiny closet, and then the hidden door closed. As it did, a low light illuminated a series of combination locks.
“Zero, eight, seven, nine.” He glanced at her. “My birth year, or my best guess at it.”
He spun another lock. “One, nine, eight, nine. Your birth year.”
“That’s too obvious, you should change it.”
Oleg moved to the next lock. “Of course, by the time the second lock is open, I will have already been alerted to anyone trying to break into my day chamber.”
“Oleg—”
“Zero, three, zero, five.” He smiled at her. “Rex Harrison’s birthday.”
A nod to the pigeon she’d used to escape from him the first time? Only Oleg.
The door swung open, and Oleg stepped in first, then she followed him.
Tatyana was confused by what she saw. Then she was furious.
“Someone tried to kill you?” Low rage simmered in her blood. “When? Who? Was it Ivan?”
The room looked like a firebomb had gone off in it. The wallpaper was scorched, the drapes covering false windows were black tatters, and the linens and curtains around the four-poster bed were blackened from fire.
“Not Ivan.” He turned in the wreckage of what must have been his day chamber. “Me.”
She froze. “What?”
There were clear signs that some cleaning had taken place, and there was a makeshift bed in one corner that had been rehabilitated. He was clearly still using it for his day chamber, and someone—possibly him—had started stripping off the burned wallpaper.
Oleg pushed on one poster of the bed, and the fire-scorched wood cracked in his hand. “I’ll have it redecorated. Maybe wrought iron would be a better choice.” He chuckled. “More heat tolerant.”
“This isn’t funny.” She was frightened. Had this happened in his sleep? She’d heard the terrifying stories of fire vampires losing control and burning themselves alive, but never in her imagination had she thought it could happen to Oleg. He was too controlled. Too careful.
“The citadel is better for me,” he said casually. “The air is damp. Though Saint Petersburg is normally quite humid, so it must have been a very intense fire.”
“What are you talking about?” She walked to him. “What happened?”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing but a bad dream, wife. But for now we shall continue sleeping separately. I cannot risk?—”
