There’s no accusation in it. Somehow that makes it hurt more.
“I thought…” I stop, because I don’t know what I thought. That Yaromir had been born into power and simply wanted more of it. That his anger was ambition. That his hatred of his father was some mafia son’s war over territory and inheritance.
It’s that too. But not only that.
He looks down at his bloody hand. “I learned young that the wordfatheris easy for men who don’t have to earn it.”
I don’t know what to say. There is nothing clever enough. Nothing soft enough. Nothing that wouldn’t sound useless in this little room with music outside and blood still on his skin.
So I say nothing. I step closer instead.
He watches me, guarded again, as if he regrets saying this much.
I take his injured hand carefully. His fingers twitch once, but he lets me. The cuts across his knuckles are ugly, swollen at the edges. I wrap my hand around his as much as I can and squeeze.
For a few seconds, he doesn’t move.
Then his thumb shifts over mine, barely there. It feels like an answer.
I look down at our hands because looking at his face is suddenly too much. “I wasn’t defending Dmitri,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“You didn’t a minute ago.”
“No.”
I glance up.
His eyes hold mine. “Now I do,” he says.
The words settle somewhere deep in my chest. I nod once and let go of his hand before the silence turns into something I’m not ready for.
Outside, the auctioneer’s voice rises through the corridor. “Ladies and gentlemen, we now move to lot twenty-three.”
I freeze.
Yaromir notices immediately. “What?”
I don’t answer at first.
The emerald necklace. The one Irina said Katya wanted. The one Dmitri would supposedly get for her.
Yaromir looks toward the main hall, then back at me. “Anya.”
“It’s nothing.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You stopped breathing.”
I turn toward the door. “We should go back.”
For a second, I think he might press me. Instead, he offers his arm.
I take it.
