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We’re in an old church. Behind the altar, gold-painted icons of saints stretch to the ceiling, dusty but in miraculously good condition considering the obvious age of the church and that we’re in the middle of nowhere.
“How did you know this was here?” I ask, turning back to him.
He doesn’t answer, his face grim and closed off. “I’ll get the fire going,” is all he gives me, pointing to the big masonry stone stove at the back of the church.
I’m familiar with the heating that older village houses still use. Dad hid out everywhere, and we spent one winter in an off-the-beaten-path Romanian village with a similar if much smaller, stove. The house had smooth-packed dirt floors and an outhouse out back. I was nine, and it was one of the best years of my life because Dad and I were actually together. The two years prior, he’d sent me to live with his mother, a grouchy, ancient-looking woman (or so I thought at the time) who didn’t seem to like children much.
“It might take me a while to clear out the flue,” Kharon says, then lopes off towards the stove without another word, reaching for a long metal cleaning brush and climbing into the brick stove.
It effectively cuts off all conversation, and I’m left to my curiosity about him and this place as I sit and watch him clean for about half an hour. He finally emerges from the stove, his blue skin covered in soot.
I burst out laughing, which feels strange and sacrosanct, not because we’re in a church, but because of the day we’ve had. That only makes me laugh harder.
“Can we heat up some extra water?” I ask. “You’re all dirty.”
He smiles at me lopsidedly, and it suddenly strikes me that he’s actually very attractive once you get used to his exaggerated features. Even with soot streaked across his face. I’m a little taken aback by my wildly swinging emotions as he responds, “Water, we have plenty of.”
He bounds off on all fours again, startling me with his burst of activity. I can only watch, astonished, as he leaps up the entire three-story drop, arms outstretched as he easily catches hold of the window ledge we descended through. My mouth drops open as I watch him collect armfuls of snow before jumping back down. Again, he makes a smooth landing.
He smiles at me with a boyish grin. I shake my head at him, a little giddy now that we’re safe in this strange sanctuary. “That’s frozen water.”
“Not for long.” He lopes back to the stove and reaches underneath, where there’s actually still wood. I’m beyond surprised, but he looks like he expected it. The wood is extremely dry, and when he lights it with a match from the backpack, it catches immediately and starts to burn well. The stove is huge, and Kharon is obviously used to this type of setup because he expertly grabs a cauldron pot hanging over the open flame and fills it with snow.
It’s melting within moments.
I dig through the pack and find a small cloth. Once the water is a little warmer, I take off my glove and dip it in.
“Turn around,” I tell him. “I’ll help wash off the soot.”
“Oh.” He blinks, and his fast, sure movements slow for the first time. Then the big man pauses and sits down with his back to me.
Even though cleaning him felt like the obvious thing to do moments ago, my hand suddenly trembles as I reach towards his skin with the steaming cloth. It feels silly to pull back now when I’m the one who suggested it.
So I tell myself to be brave. I took out the Mikhailov Bratva’s number two captain, after all. I can certainly handle. . . my breathing gets a little shorter. . . whatever this is. Just helping an associate out. That’s all.
So why does my breathing stay uneven as I rub the cloth down his large, muscled back? There’s a slight hump on the top of his back where the cluster of his arms come together in multiple shoulders. It shouldn’t work, but somehow, it all fits. He doesn’t seem monstrous. He’s actually. . . quite majestic up close like this.
I bite my bottom lip. It’s so satisfying to bring back his blue skin, a clean streak showing through the soot.
The big man in front of me shivers. I didn’t think he would be bothered by the cold. “Is this. . . okay?” I ask, and my quiet voice sounds loud in the echoey room.
“Yes,” he barks out, his voice a little strangled sounding. “Please continue.”
I blink a few times, then reach out again.
Tentatively and very aware of every motion and the drip of the cloth, I start at the top of his large, muscled shoulders. Again, he shivers as soon as I make contact.
