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His shrug is aloof, like he wants to pretend Ulyana’s involvement was less impactful than it truly was. “She has a way of knowing what’s best.”
“Yes,” I agree, putting my glass down with a mild smile. “She does.”
Arsen shifts in his chair. His eyes roam to his food, his hands, the large window. He works his jaw, trying to summon the words he needs. “Terrible things happened because I wasn’t there to shelter you.”
“Arsen—”
“Even so … I don’t regret letting you leave.” He faces me, his eyes searching mine in that eagle-like way of his. “You’re your own person, Galina. You should be allowed to make your own choices. But, my God, I was a wreck. I kept picturing the worst scenarios and … and I had a vivid nightmare.”
That’s right, he almost told me. It came up after Madison nearly stabbed him with a syringe. I wanted to pry but resisted. “What was your nightmare about?”
Lacing his hands together, he hunches lower in his chair. “For a long time, I’ve had nightmares about Kristina. They’re always the same thing—me coming across her body and being unable to save her as she bleeds out. But this time, it wasn’t her corpse I picked up.” His attention snaps to me. “It was yours.”
“How did I die?”
“I killed you.”
Ice spreads through my bones. The deliciousness of the meal evaporates. “What?”
“You died because of me. I was responsible. Galina, the very thought that I could lose you is unbearable.”
Reaching over the table, I grab his hand in mine. “You won’t.”
“Predicting the future is impossible,” he argues sourly.
I clench his hand tighter. “Yes, but I know you won’t be the reason I die.”
The lights on the chandelier flicker, then go out. I yelp in surprise. “What happened?”
“Shit,” Arsen mutters, scraping his chair backward. The firelight makes one half of the cabin red and orange; the window paints the rest in washes of blue and somber purple. I didn’t notice it earlier, but there’s a scraping, wheezing noise, tiny taps as something small and hard brushes along the window. He moves to a metal plate on the wall—I could barely see it if not for the fire’s glow. He fiddles with it. “The snow has started coming down again hard. Must have taken the power out.”
“Will we be okay?” I ask nervously.
The tension in his face smooths away. Smiling kindly, he comes my way, taking my hands in his. “We’ll be fine. I’ll check the main breakers when the storm calms down. Let’s finish our meal by the fire.”
Together we carry our plates in front of the roaring flames. We eat mostly in silence, allowing the storm to provide the conversation. Snowflakes skirt across the glass. I watch in amazement as the trees outside, their shapes blurry, all chunky black limbs, sway in the wind. The lake is invisible. The geese are long gone, I hope.
When we’re finished eating, Arsen pulls out a heavy green-and-gold checkered blanket from a closet. Wrapping up in it, we sit arm to arm in front of the fireplace. Though we’re pressed together, the mood is edgy. There should be peace here … but there isn’t.
There won’t be until we finish talking. Arsen has a lot on his mind. The weight of being in charge, and the drive to keep me safe, has crushed him into the dirt.
He thinks constantly about the Bratva. He even thinks he’ll get me killed because of it. I know he won’t. He’d never. But … there are choices, and then there are accidents. I need to know where I stand on the line he’s drawn.
Slipping my hand into his under the blanket, I look him in the eye. “If you were forced to choose between the Bratva and me … which one would you pick?”
His eyes widen. Gripping not just one of my hands but both, he tugs me toward him under the blanket until our knees grind together. His voice comes out hoarse.
“I would burn the world down to keep you safe. But … the only way I can do that is by staying in control of the Bratva.” He frowns sharply, then barks a pale excuse for a laugh. “I feel like I’m losing my grasp on that. I worked as hard as possible to lead those men. Now, one by one, they’re running off with Yevgeniy. At this rate, I won’t have a Bratva left to lead.”
A jagged pain rips through my heart. I knew he was burdened by all of this, but I didn’t know how it was tormenting him. Not truly.
Lowering his chin until I see the top of his head, he speaks to the floor. “Who am I if I’m not the pakhan?”
Gripping his chin, I force his head up until he’s looking at me. The pain in his eyes turns them blacker than the storm outside. More than ever, I want to erase that pain.
“You’re my husband. You’ll always be my husband.”
Our kiss is light and gentle. Not hesitant, but patiently sweet. He pulls the blanket tighter around us, using the material to sandwich us together. His lips graze over mine; he kisses me once more, then stares into my eyes. The darkness within his eyes is gone.
