My stomach turns. Roman’s gaze drops to the phone.
A message from Papa appears at the top.
Call me immediately.
Then another.
Katerina, do not force me to come after you.
My fingers go numb.
Roman’s voice is quiet. “Problem?”
I switch the phone off. Immediately.
The screen goes black.
“No problem,” I say.
He studies me.
I lift my chin, daring him to challenge the lie.
He does not.
Outside customs, the doors slide open, and Moscow hits me properly. The cold punches the breath out of my lungs.
It’s not cold like an over-air-conditioned room. Not cold like a rainy evening. This is a living thing. It rushes under my coat, bites my cheeks, fills my nose and chest until I gasp.
“Oh my God.”
Roman looks amused.
I glare at him through the shock. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re always not laughing.”
“Your coat is insufficient.”
“My coat is wool.”
“Your coat is decorative.”
“You said that already.”
“And it remains true.”
I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to shiver too obviously. The air smells different here. Clean in a brutal way, with exhaust, frost, and something else underneath. People walk past us as if this weather is normal, as if their bones are made of better material than mine.
Roman removes his jacket.
Before I can object, he places it around my shoulders.
It’s heavy and warm from his body.
The scent of him rises around me at once. Smoke, cedar, expensive cologne, and something that’s simply Roman.
