“I told myself it was anger,” he says. “That Dmitri had put my mother’s ring on some pretty, empty girl who would make a suitable Volkov bride and nothing more.”
“That’s terrible,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“You say that like it doesn’t bother you.”
“It did.”
The honesty of that sends a shiver through me.
I look at the ring in his hand because looking at his face feels dangerous. “What did you want?” I ask, though I’m not sure I should.
His eyes hold mine. “To see you again.”
The simple answer is somehow worse than something filthy would have been.
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in me goes still.
“Yaromir.”
“I made inquiries.”
“What does that mean?”
The room feels suddenly smaller.
I stare at him. “You were watching me?”
“Not at first.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because you asked.”
I step back once, but not because I’m afraid. Not exactly.
Because something about this is too much.
“You should have run farther,” he says.
“I did run.”
“Not far enough.”
My breath shakes. The night at the club rises suddenly in my mind. The smoky hallway. Leonid’s hand on me. The panic. The kick. The gunshot from the dark. A flash of a scar. Dark eyes.
My body goes cold. “Yaromir.”
