I don’t care.
I’m happy.
I’m happy with him.
The music shifts. I step closer. His hand spreads against my back, and he looks down at me like there is no war, no Volkov name, no blood waiting outside the door.
Only us.
I rise on my toes. “I need to tell you something,” I whisper.
His eyes roam over my face, as if memorizing my face. “What?”
My heart beats fast, but not from fear. From the size of the truth.
“I love?—”
The music stops. The warmth drains out of the room.
Yaromir’s hand disappears from my waist.
The floor beneath me turns slick and cold.
I look down. Water runs around my feet.
Not a ballroom.
The river.
I’m back at the canal, standing near the old warehouse, the sky gray above me, my coat heavy with water. The air smells of rust, mud, and blood.
My hand goes to my stomach.
No. Not here.
I turn, searching for Yaromir, but he’s gone.
Someone stands near the river wall instead.
Katya.
She wears the silver dress from the auction, but the hem is wet and dark. Her hair hangs loose around her pale face. She looks at me with wide, frightened eyes, nothing like the woman who smiled beside Dmitri.
“Katya?” I say.
She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.
The wind lifts around us. The river moves behind her, black and slow.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She tries again, lips trembling.
I step closer. “What?”
Her eyes move over my shoulder. Terror fills her face.
I turn.
