“What?” she asks without looking, as if she senses me standing there, watching her.
“I want you to tell me about Kostya,” I say neutrally, sitting back down after I throw away his letter.
Her mouth tightens. “What do you want to know?” she asks, still not looking up.
“All of it,” I add before she can deflect. “From the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”
She leans back slightly, studying my face. “Is this an interrogation?” she asks.
“No,” I reply. “But you know more about him than my men can find out. Your information could be useful to me.”
She considers that, then glances down at the sketchpad, tapping the pencil against the paper once.
She sets the pencil aside and turns fully toward me now, drawing her knees up beneath her.
“Okay,” she says. “That makes sense.”
I again take a seat across from her, close enough that I can see the faint tension in her shoulders, the way she braces herself.
“You can leave out the intimate details,” I add lamely, suddenly feeling jealous in a way I can’t explain.
She looks up at me sharply, raising one eyebrow.
“You mean you don’t want to know about our raucous sex life?” she jokes, a smile tugging at her lips.
I hold her gaze steadily. “I very much do not,” I confirm.
She pauses for a moment before unexpectedly bursting out laughing.
“There really aren’t any intimate details to share,” she finally says after she’s caught her breath.
I stare at her in surprise. I don’t react immediately. I don’t let anything show on my face. Years of discipline keep myexpression neutral, my posture relaxed. Inside, though, my curiosity is piqued. Her words light something up in me that I can’t possibly name.
“Explain,” I say evenly.
She shrugs, a small, almost embarrassed movement. “We didn’t sleep together,” she says. “I was waiting.”
“For marriage?” I guess.
She nods. “Yes.”
I sit back slightly, drawing a slow breath through my nose. I’m relieved at the thought. No, more than that. I feel possessive. Then I realize what she means.
If she was waiting for marriage, that means that when we had sex, it was her first time. I took her virginity. It’s mine. I don’t like the way my body reacts to that information. The sudden heat low in my gut. The proprietary edge that slips into my thoughts without invitation. She was untouched by him.
“Why?” I ask, keeping my voice controlled, not giving away just how much her confession is affecting me.
She blinks back at me in confusion. “Why what?”
“Why wait?” I clarify.
She tilts her head, considering me carefully. “Because I wanted to,” she says simply. “Because it mattered to me. And because he said he respected that.”
I almost laugh.
“Did he?” I ask.
Her lips twist. “He said all the right things,” she exhales slowly. “And he never pressured me. Not too much, anyway.”
