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“You’ll get used to it.”
I laugh cruelly. “I really, really doubt that. I spent eighteen years in a shithole trailer park with two shithole parents. It’s kind of a hard thing to move beyond.”
I always assumed that what he’s promising is exactly what I wanted. To forget about my messed-up childhood and my messed-up parents and the messed-up world I was born into. But hearing him say it, I feel more frantic than freed.
Those memories built the person I am today.
Those scars carved out the outline of who I am.
Without them… what’s left?
Misha’s dark eyes churn. “You’re clutching your pendant again.”
I look down and realize that the metal has in fact left little grooves in my skin. It’s odd: sometimes, when I lie really still at night and hold onto it, I get this phantom feeling. It’s fleeting and it’s vague, but there are moments when I hold the necklace and I swear I can feel Clara there, hiding just out of sight.
Whispering secrets I won’t remember in the morning.
Trying to tell me that she’s still around…somewhere.
If only I knew where to look.
“Can I see it?” he asks.
I jerk my chin up. “You want to see my pendant?”
“I’ll see it eventually either way.”
I’m not sure if that’s a threat or a simple matter of fact. But I decide not to fight him on it. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
He eyes me coolly, and I have a feeling he’s going to renege on his request. Then he reaches for his chain. But instead of pulling it out, he undoes the first few buttons of his shirt.
The fabric falls away from his chest, revealing the silver dog tag that lies between a pair of pecs carved from marble. I see scars, tattoos, rippling muscles, and for a moment, I’m so distracted that I forget how we ended up here in the first place.
My face burns, but I lean forward to squint through the candlelight. There’s an inscription on the front that I can’t read. His expression remains detached and uninterested even while he’s bared and beckoning me closer.
I get up and drag my chair closer to him. This close, his cologne makes my head swim. I swallow down my nerves and focus on the dog tag. The writing is still hard to read, but I’m close enough now that I can make out the words.
Vse dlya sem’i.
I glare at him. “That’s not fair. It’s in another language. I don’t read Russian.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Tell me what it means.”
He shakes his head. “Show me yours now.”
“That isn’t fair!”
“Retract your claws for a moment,kiska. I might still tell you what it says. But you have to give some to get some.”
He’s dangling the carrot. As much as I hate it, I know I’m going to cave. Sighing, I reach up to my neck, unfasten the clasp, and let it pool in the palm of my hand. I pass it over to him, not missing how the tiniest brush of his fingers against mine lets a tiny electric spark pass between us. Not quite physical and not quite imaginary. Just proof that there is more here than either of us counted on.
Misha takes it from me and holds it up to the candlelight to study it. His face is hard, brows furrowed, jaw clenched tight. It’s impossible to read him or know what he’s thinking.
But as the seconds tick past, I start to feel itchy without it. My neck feels bare, unguarded. I know we’re alone in here, but the crazy part of my brain keeps thinking that something is lurking in the shadows to come chomp on my throat while I’m not wearing my armor.
Misha flicks his gaze up to me. The flames dance across the peaks and valleys of his face. It’s unfair how gorgeous he is, how cruelly, distantly beautiful, like a mountain I’ll never be allowed to reach the top of.
