It’s just as incredible as I remembered, like something out of a fairy tale with shelves of books stories tall. Dark wood, leather furniture, dusky carpets, the musty smell of old paper and leather bindings that remind me so much of my father’s bookstore. And above that, the faint scent I have come to know is particular to Evgeny, a smoky blend of cedar, cardamom, vetiver, and the barest hint of fresh citrus.
It’s a blend as dark and intoxicating as the man himself. And I want to inhale it as much as I want to bury my nose in one of those old Russian books to discover the treasure hidden within.
The space looks even more beautiful with light streaming in from the clerestory windows.
Except someone is already in the library. Evgeny sits in one of the big leather chairs, one leg draped over the other, his eyes moving over the pages of the slim book in his hands.
His eyes slip from the book to meet mine, and I freeze as the door clicks closed behind me.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you would be here.”
Evgeny lowers his gaze back to his book.
“Stay,” is all he says, and after a moment’s indecision, I do.
I spend the next hour climbing up and down the ladder, exploring different books on different shelves, and reading a few pages to get a feel for the text before I put it back. Some of the books are so old the leather flakes in my hands, the pages are yellowed, and some of the print has faded.
One particular book has seen much love or strife, with the leather cracked and faded, and the brittle pages have torn and flaked away at the edges. The printed Cyrillic letters are smudged and faded in many places, as though someone has run their fingers over the words repeatedly.
And I’m beyond thrilled to find it.
Trying not to let out a squeal of excitement, I nearly skip to the chair catty-corner to Evgeny and start eagerly devouring the words.
Before long, though, the back of my neck prickles. I look up to find Evgeny’s unsettling gaze fixed on me, almost like he’s the eldritch beast from the story I’m reading.
“The Scarlet Flower?” he asks, faint amusement lifting his tone. “In Russian?”
“It’s always better in the original language.”
His mouth quirks faintly on one side as he lifts his book, and I read the gold-foiled Russian on the spine. Dostoyevsky’sThe Gambler and Other Tales. “I’ll agree with that. You enjoy Russian fairy tales?”
My cheeks and the tips of my ears burn. “Yes. I find them darkly enchanting. They have so much pain and sorrow in them.”
“Russian literature is rather depressing,” Evgeny agrees, a faint rumble of laughter at the edge of his words.
“Too much darkness and vodka,” I say, grinning.
“Too much poverty and bleakness,” Evgeny adds.
And just like that, we’ve found something in common.
I smile, and miracle of miracles, Evgeny smiles back at me. Truly smiles, the first one I’ve seen since that night at the club, the breathtaking, disarming smile that makes my heart skip several beats and then race onward.
And, of course, my stomach chooses that moment to announce itself with a loud gurgle.
“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks heating. “I guess I forgot to eat lunch.”
He closes his book, places it beside a tumbler nearly empty of whiskey, and pushes to his feet. “Unlike the poor souls in most of these books, I have a remedy for that.”
“Alona?” I ask, pushing up from my chair and trotting to keep up with his long strides.
“It’s her evening off. There’s a place down the road.”
I stop short, my mind trying to comprehend what Evgeny is implying. He looks over his shoulder at me. “Are you coming? You can stay and scrounge if you’d rather.”
I’m after him in a flash, not wanting to give him time to second-guess what seems like an invitation not only to eat but also to leave the estate for a while, unprompted.
“Boss.”
