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“Give me the bottle.”
He gives it to me, and I drink, then hand him the bottle back with a grimace. “God, that’s disgusting.”
“Yea.” He grins.
Behind him, I spot Camille, who’s frowning as she looks around—probably searching for me and the drinks I promised to bring back. Ducking behind Iakov, I use him as a barrier.
“Who’re you avoiding?” he asks.
“My friend Camille, she’s… she wants to dance.”
“You don’t feel like dancing?”
“Not really. Do you?”
Iakov shrugs. “Most of the time, I just feel like smashing my own skull open against a rock.”
That’s when I realise he’s drunk.
“Then who would be Zaro’s bodyguard?” I say, hoping to lighten the tone.
“She’ll find some other stupid fucker to follow her around like a dog.”
“You’re not a stupid fucker, Iakov.”
“Yea.” He gives a growling laugh and a swig of his vodka.
I grab his arm and start pulling him towards the dancing crowd. “Come on, Iakov, cheer up. Life gets better.”
“Sometimes it gets worse.”
I freeze and turn back to look at him. He grins a joyless grin that sends a shiver down my spine.
“We’re in the same boat, Dorokhova, headed to the same hell.” He suddenly slings his arm around my neck, almost sending me crashing into the floor. “C’mon. Let’s dance like the doomed fuckers we are.”
This time, when he hands me his vodka bottle, I take deep, long swigs.
IakovKavinskidanceslikea crazy person to a soundtrack only he can hear, which I’m certain must be music consisting only of heavy metal and the screams of the damned.
At first, it’s a little scary—and then, it’s just fun. I imitate him, flinging my arms around and shaking like I’m mad. He laughs, throwing his head back, and I laugh too.
Then a dark shadow appears between us.
“Having fun, you two?”
Zachary is dressed all in black, with the top button of his shirt undone. His hair is impeccable, and his handsome face is set in an austere expression.
“Bishop Blackwood, welcome.” I curl an arm around his neck and press the length of my body against his. “You should dance with us.”
“Oh, is that what you two are doing?Dancing?” Zachary’s tone is acerbic, but he rests his hand on the low of my back, tangling his fingers with the laces. “Because you two look like you’re out there fighting demons.”
“I’m dancing,” Iakov shouts hoarsely over the music. “Don’t fight my demons—they’ve already won.”
Zachary casts a look at the bottle of vodka in Iakov’s hand. “Clearly.”
“Do you like my dress?” I ask in his ear.
“He likes your dress,” Iakov answers. “Trust me.”
