I made some kind of noise, barely a squeak. He laughed and patted my hand, finally breaking that searing eye contact that had me paralyzed and hypnotized at the same time.
“Let’s watch a movie,” he said, his grin making him look remarkably boyish and not so scary.
A movie. That was all. I breathed out a long sigh, telling myself it was from relief. Once again, I could stiffen my spine. While there was no way I could refuse—I learned that lesson the hard way, and I could still feel his hands on me from when he carried me down the stairs—I could roll my eyes at his probable movie choices.
“Hmm, let me guess? Something with more shooting than dialogue? Or something set in a frat house?”
He stood, still chuckling at his little joke at my expense. He knew exactly what he was doing and how I’d react.
“I do appreciate those genres,” he said.
I scowled at him but followed him beyond the sweeping staircase and down the hall to a theater room with a screen that took up the entirety of one huge wall. Rows of reclining seats were arranged on three levels, and in the middle were two couches, laden with pillows and draped with blankets.
I sat in the first reclining chair in the top row and wedged myself in. He moved past me and lounged on one of the couches, turning to give me a raised eyebrow. “Lilia,” he said. Nothing more.
But it said enough, full of command and subtle warning. I got up, trudged over to the couch, and sat as far from him as possible.
“How about you choose?” he said. “Pick a movie that’s based on one of your favorite books.”
“So you never have to read it?”
“Precisely.”
He was infuriating. Still, it was better than having to suffer through a loud action film, full of swearing and explosions. I wanted to pick something long, and sure, he would hate.
“There’s an old TV miniseries based on Anna Karenina,” I said. Let him sit through almost three hours of that tragic Russian love story, and he wouldn’t be making me watch movies with him ever again.
“Is that Dostoevsky?” he asked, scrolling to find it somewhere. A quick, grinning glance told me who knew very well that it was Tolstoy who wrote the original novel.
“I was about to revoke your Russian citizenship,” I said, finding myself smiling back at him a little. I did truly love the book and all of its adaptations.
After a little searching, he was able to download it, and Varvara silently left a tray of drinks and a bowl of caramel corn as the opening credits rolled.
“I think she may be trying to kill you very slowly,” I whispered.
“I’ve considered she might be working a long game and pushing me toward a heart attack,” he agreed, reaching across me to grab a handful of the popcorn. “But if she truly wanted me dead, I’d have been stabbed long ago.”
His arm brushed past my breasts, making me suck in a breath. Gavril looked sly, but was more careful as he sat back in his own spot, well away from me. The show started, and at first, he made a few snide comments. At the end of the first episode, he clicked on the second fast enough and fell silent after that, surprising me by getting swept up in the tale. At the end, he was utterly outraged.
“What a load of crap,” he said, exhibiting the exact amount of pain I felt when I read the book for the first time when I was eleven. “Why did she do that?”
“Isn’t it tragic?” I asked, wiping away a tear.
He gaped at me. “You feel sorry for her? She should have just taken her children and left. And hired someone to take out that coward Vronsky.”
It was my turn to stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “You didn’t get it at all, did you? It was a different time. Men held all the power—”
“Nonsense.”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying, but he continued to argue passionately, outlining all the ways poor Anna could have had a better life. I argued that it couldn’t have been possible, and besides, what kind of story would that make?
“A better one,” he said.
“Do not tell me that you’re a sucker for a happy ending,” I teased, because it was clear he was.
“So what if I am?” he asked.
“Well, we can watch a sappy holiday romance next time.”
