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He might have been hoping to spare me any guilt I might feel over it.
It was wasted effort. There would have been no guilt on my part.
“From me.” He continues to stroke my back. “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
“I know what you are, Andre.” He’s never tried to hide that side of himself from me.
“But knowing it and witnessing it are two different things, dusha moya.” The words are barely out of his mouth before Andre stiffens under me.
Even without a discernible accent, the formal way Andre speaks has always made me question if English was his first language. There’s only been one other time I heard him use a word that I didn’t recognize, and that was before I felt comfortable questioning him.
“Russian?”
He barely nods, clearly unhappy with the slip.
“Were you born there?”
This time Andre shakes his head. “No.” He’s quiet for a minute. “My father was Russian.”
I stroke over his skin, sliding my fingers across the tiny bit of roughness peeking out along his jaw. “What was he like?”
“He was evil.” The answer comes quickly and is unsurprising given the disgust pinching his handsome face.
“Well,” I straighten to face him, “for what it’s worth, I would have let you kill him too.”
