Dresses in various lengths, all black. Four pairs of formal shoes in assorted heights. Four types of boots with different treads. Also all in black.
I shake out a boot, finally getting her attention. She does a half-jump and lashes out at me with her legs. “Don’t mess up my system!”
I’m still out of reach, so she can’t do a damn thing.
Too bad, princess.
Finding nothing else to amuse or inform myself with, I go for the dresser next.
Her eyes follow me, but that’s all. She’s not trying to stop me. Not acting worried or guilty or anything. Just…annoyed.
On her dresser, I discover a small dark wooden box covered in ornate carvings and designs. When the lid opens, a tinny, classical melody plays.Tink-ta-tink-tink.Delicate, precise notes crystalize in the quiet.
Tchaikovsky, maybe. For all I know about music, though, it could also be jazz.
I let the music box play for five more notes, then snap the lid shut.
The oppressive silence that follows simmers in the air. Did I finally get to her? I catch her gaze.
Nika stares with cold, heavy fury. “You can’t think this will break me. I don’t care about sweaters and music boxes.”
“But you care about something, don’t you?” I open the top drawer, hunting for anything to embarrass her with.
“Nothing. No one.”
The words echo against the stone in my chest.
I don’t care about anything either.
It’s the best way to live, I’ve learned. Not giving a shit about sweaters, music boxes, books, or silk. Not being attached to anything means I can’t be made vulnerable by people willing to destroy those things.
Everything I care about has already turned to dust.
Nika and I have that in common.
What a strange connection to have to a person, neither of us bound to anything or anyone.
But as I peer into her defiant, angry eyes, I’m pretty sure she’s lying. She does care.
At the very least, she cares about the locket or what it represents. I also detected that hint of need in Dimitri’s voice when he tried to reach out via the radio.
I sit on the edge of the mattress. As the springs dip under my weight, she goes rigid.
“Sure you do.” I lean in, and she braces herself. “You care about Roman.”
Horror clouds her face. “I couldn’t care about anyone less.”
“Caring isn’t loving.” I reach forward to trail my finger down her jaw. “Caring is focus. Interest. Sacrifice.” My hand skates to her shoulder, then her arm. Under my touch, tension coils in her muscles. “Hate can resemble caring if you do it right. And you care a lot about what happens to Roman, don’t you? You care about how much you can mess up his life. Our lives. Why?”
She tilts her head away.
I don’t like her withdrawing like that. My patience snaps, and I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me. She’s not as disconnected as she pretends to be, and she needs to see that.“Why the diamonds? Why the clues? Why this twisted treasure hunt?”
My other hand trails across her body and over her breast, her ribs, her stomach. Possessive. Threatening. Ensuring she’s mortally aware of every touch even through the fabric.
She pulls her head away even as her back arches closer.
“What’s the point, Nika? What are you trying to accomplish?”
