For my daughter
He’d told me he would never tire of saying that.
“Read that, then pack a suitcase for five nights.” Sevastyan gave a curt nod. “We depart soon. I’ll leave you to it.”
As soon as I was alone, I tore the envelope open. . . .
My dearest Natalie,
If you are reading this, then I am—how do you Americans so eloquently phrase it?—shit out of luck.
Even in those words, I could hear his wry tone, could imagine him writing it with a sigh.
However, you are with Aleksei, and that is my consolation. He will walk into a hail of bullets for you.
He had.
Yet as loyal as he is, there is a darkness to him. Since the first winter I brought him to Berezka, he has not spoken about his childhood, but I know it was horrific. I never pressed him to talk about it, because I sensed he wanted to shed his past and make a fresh start.
This was a failing on my part.
Dorogaya, he’s like an intricate clock, and some mechanism deep within is broken. He bears scars inside and out, and until he can trust another enough to confide about his past, I don’t believe he will ever be whole. Coax him to entrust you with his burdens.
How? If Sevastyan hadn’t learned to open up by now . . .
Not that I expected him to know how. He’d been raised from the age of thirteen in a domicile inhabited by men, rife with guns and criminals.
And who knew what had happened to him before that?
You’re a wealthy woman now. Once you are out of danger, please see the world and live out your dreams.
With all my heart, I hope you and Aleksei can build a future together on a strong foundation. But if you can’t, my brave daughter, then eye the horizon. Life is short. Take it from someone who apparently knows.
Tears clouded my vision. Again his wryness permeated his words. But we would never laugh together again, would never share jokes.
You are my life’s great surprise, treasured beyond words. However much time I got to spend with you was not enough—and never could be.
With all my love,
Bátja
Through tears, I reread the letter several times, until I was almost numbed to it, then placed it in the inner pocket of my suitcase. As I began to pack, I reflected on my father’s advice about Sevastyan.
I wasn’t a big fan of women trying to fix men, to change them. I always figured there were guys enough out there, so I should look for a total package that was already fully Ikea-assembled—or go without.
But getting Sevastyan to open up didn’t necessarily involve changing him, it involved getting to know him. Like a scholarly investigation.
Our relationship needed work. Work is what I do.
Did I want Sevastyan enough to fight for him? Yes. Yes, I did. I’d wanted him since I’d first seen him.
I had to try.
I emerged from the cabin just as he was disconnecting a call. With the same mysterious person as before?
“Are you well?” His way of asking about the letter.
“Yes. Paxán wrote a beautiful good-bye.”
Sevastyan nodded. “I’ve just learned that much of the danger has lessened. Word of the bounty’s expiration has spread, and Berezka has been secured. Your father’s funeral will be held there in two weeks.”
“I see.” I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “Are we going back there now?”
“Not yet. I’ve rented a car for us to head south to Paris. There’s a secure property in the city.”
“But if the danger is dwindling . . .”
“I trust the information about Berezka—but not enough to risk your life.”
“Who’s giving you the intel? One of the brigadiers?”
“A man named Maksim.”
At the mention of this name, something tugged at my memory. “How do you know him?” When Sevastyan didn’t answer, I said, “Let me guess. You met him in the north. By chance.”
“Something like that,” he said, twisting that thumb ring like a son of a bitch. Like my shady Siberian. “I’ve known him for most of my life. I do . . . trust him, up to a point, at least.” Twist, twist, twist.
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t feel like he was outright lying, but he was definitely skirting around the truth. And for right now, I was just too drained to call him on it.
When he told me, “I’ll get your bag,” and set off for the cabin, it was almost a relief.
Once we were in the car, a Mercedes sedan much like his own, Sevastyan paused before starting off. Without looking at me, he squeezed the gearshift, rubbing his other palm over the wheel.
Finally he spoke: “A good man would reason that you were confused last night, traumatized, and couldn’t be held accountable for your actions. A good man would release you back to your old life, now that everything has changed.”
“But you don’t consider yourself a good man?”
He faced me, enunciating the words: “Not in the least, pet.” His answer sounded like both a promise and a threat.
How to respond to that? He’d basically told me he was a selfish bastard who wouldn’t ever be letting me go. Just as he’d informed me last night, while petting me so divinely.
I let the conversation rest—but I wouldn’t for long. Paxán’s letter had just highlighted my own misgivings. I needed more from Sevastyan.
Yet what was I prepared to do to get it?
He put the car in gear. As we drove away from St. Petersburg, I gazed up at him, realizing I was starting off on an expedition into the unknown. With this trip, with this man.
I was a bystander in both cases—waiting for Sevastyan to switch gears or signal with a blinker, to open up or show some hint of trust.
And all the while, the hazard lights flashed over and over. . . .
Chapter 30
“Amazing,” I breathed as I gazed out over Paris from the covered balcony of Sevastyan’s town house.
His “secure property” was a four-story mansion from the turn of the century, with a to-die-for view of the Eiffel freaking Tower, the pinnacle of all my travel dreams. It soared, the top disappearing into a low bank of rain clouds.
“I’m pleased you like it,” he said from the spacious open-plan sitting area. If Berezka had been all that was opulent, this place was nearly as lush, but the interior was more modern. In front of a crackling fire, he poured a glass of red wine for me.
I couldn’t help but sigh at him, all dressed to perfection in a three-piece charcoal suit. Seeing him like this made me glad I’d dressed up today. This morning, he’d told me Paris was only a few hours away, so I’d forgone my most comfortable clothes for thigh-highs, kitten heels, a pencil skirt, and a fitted blouse of deep purple silk.