Page 47 of Violent Pawn

And like that, Padre moves on to ask Anastasia all kinds of questions. She answers everything with an easy smile, and the more she talks about herself, the lower her shoulders get, the less tense her expression. He asks about her hobbies, so she goes into great detail about ballet, which leads Padre down another line of inquiries. When he asks about family, I pay extra attention, hoping she mentions her father—since she seems so open with mine, there’s a possibility. But she continues concealing her history firmly behind those walls of hers, and only mentions Lev.

Meanwhile, I’m ignored. It’s alright because watching them interact warms a part of my chest that the wine doesn’t reach. I find myself clinging to her every word as much as my father does, learning all I can about the woman while her guard is lowered.

Her eyes are lit brighter than the candles at the other end of the table, and like those flames, she’s warm and alluring. A moth to the flame, I lean closer, admiring how happy and free she appears. Unguarded—a foreign sight but one semi-familiar, reminding me of her dressing room the other day. Or she’s putting on a damn good performance.

When she glances my way, her attention lingers a second longer than normal. Her smile is hesitant before Padre steals her away to ask about Russian winters.

I’m jealous of my own father, that he’s getting so much of her attention. Jealous she’s genuinely smiling the kind of smile I’m starting to live for.

The one that’ll fade when she learns of my plans.

“Stay the night,” Padre offers as Anastasia edges closer to the door.

Once dessert concluded, she offered to help him clean—though he all but shoved her away—then got very anxious to begin the trek back to the villa. In truth, I am too. After dinner, I want Anastasia alone, and the car ride back gives me that.

“It’s late,” he continues. “Zeno will understand.”

“Oh…” She shoots me a look, chewing on her lip—except I don’t think I’ll be helping her through this one. “We shouldn’t.”

Padre’s house isn’t large by any means. With only two bedrooms, there’s space for him and me, which limits the options. There’s no way I’m fitting on the tiny couch to sleep, and it’s not polite to force her there either. Which leaves bunking up with the woman who’d enjoy seeing my entrails hung on the Christmas tree behind us.

He waves her off. “Nonsense, you must sleep off all the heavy food before you drive.”

I sling my arm around her shoulders, playing right into my father’s hand. “You’re right. We’ll stay and head back in the morning.”

“After breakfast,” Padre decides with a firm nod.

“O-oh, no, it’s okay. We’ve eaten enough of your food.” Anastasia digs her elbow into my stomach, pretty much where she did earlier. At this point, it’ll be gentler to just get the spot tattooed with her DNA.

“Thanks, Padre. I’ll show her to my room.” Arm around her neck, I direct her towards the stairs, pushing her through the struggle she puts up. Not without difficulty, as her strength easily rivals some of the guys I’ve fought.

Once inside my room, she whirls around, jamming her nail into my chest—also in the place she did earlier. It seems like her holiday wishes include bruising my body. “What. The. Actual. Fuck is wrong with you? Are you fucking mental? We need to go back!”

“It’s ten p.m. Everyone at the villa is probably heading to bed. I’m exhausted. No.”

She turns, taking in my childhood bedroom, which shows many signs of my youth, from the posters on the walls to the closet full of memories—if she were to open the door. Hidden within it is the photo of her Giovanni once gave me. Even after everything, I couldn’t get rid of it. It’s been years since I’ve lived here, and longer since last looking at it. It’s a tucked-away teenage memory.

At least, she sneers at the double-sized bed against the wall. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“And have you ruin your back? No, you’ll sleep in the bed.”

“So you’ll take the floor?”

“Nope, I’ll be in the bed beside you. We’re adults, Petrov. We can share a bed. Besides, it’s a single night.” A lie I tell us both, and I cross the room to cut off whatever argument is building and pull a spare shirt from my dresser. “Here, you can wear this.”

She eyes it with disdain, lips curling. “This is getting worse and worse.”

I toss it at her, her quick reflexes catching it. “Be stubborn then and don’t wear it. Sleep as is. Or I’ll give you a few minutes to change. The bathroom is the first door to your right.”

I head back downstairs to speak with Padre for a few minutes, making my wish to whatever holiday spirit there is and return to her wearing my shirt.

It’ll not only be a Christmas miracle, but the gift I never knew was possible.

25

ANASTASIA

Van