Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(49)

She shakes her head. “This will not work.”

“You clung to this poem. You’d think of it when terrible things happened to you. So many people, when they have terrible things happen to them, they become small. Not you. You became fiercer. More loving. You turned to art. This poem, it spoke to your heart. It’s about a man in prison, but he’s able to see such beauty. His heart’s utterly free. You would read this poem over and over, and you’d weep.” I run my finger over the Cyrillic letters, so much more elegant and dramatic than English. It’s not the edition she had, but it’s similar. A bit older than the one she had. Just as beat up.

She swirls her champagne, watching the play of light, mesmerized. It is nearly gone.

“Americans have such a different relationship with art,” I say, concentrating on the book, giving her the space to enjoy the champagne without my watching over her. “You haven’t been here long, but you’ll see. They’re like bees, going from one thing to another, tasting widely, always seeking the next thing. Not like us Russians, standing in front of one picture at the museum for hours, wild with feeling for it, standing there until they have to drag us from the place. Or reading a poem over and over. We are never content with the surface. We could live a whole lifetime caught in the spell of a beautiful poem.” Out the corner of my eye I see her drink again. “That’s how you are. You like the other poems. But ‘Cages’ is your heart’s poem.”

I feel her watching me. Feel her interest. She really was obsessed with this poem. Tanechka was nothing if not obsessive.

Discreetly I refill her glass, and then I begin to read the poem in the original Russian, speaking her favorite lines slowly and with feeling. It’s a long poem—many pages.

“So sad and beautiful,” she says when I pause partway in. The drink is beginning to affect her—I can feel the bright quickness of her.

“Maybe you don’t remember with your mind, but you remember with your heart.” I scoot back to sit on the floor against the end of the bed. I reach out. “Come.”

She stays put.

“I should make you?”

Her glare hardens. Right then, I recognize the terrifying stare of Tanechka, as if she is in there, trying to break out.

“I’ll pull you over and make you sit with me,” I growl. “You think I won’t? Comply with me, Tanechka, or I’ll make you comply.”

She deliberates, then comes and sits next to me against the end of the bed. I read on. The poem is melancholy. I pause and lean over to her. I speak into her hair. “You liked me to read it to you over and over.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Over and over?” she asks. “Just like that?”

I bite back a smile. She’d sometimes do this—ask questions she knew the answer to, especially when drunk. “You would very much like me to read to you, Tanechka. Over and over.” She also liked me to repeat things as though I was certain of them, like strong arms around her.

I read more. I feel her rise and fall with the words. After a long silence, she says, “It makes me feel lost and lonely.”

“I’m here,” I say.

She sighs.

“Come.” I reach around and nudge her head toward my shoulder. Miraculously, she complies, leaning her head on my shoulder. I begin again to read, trying to conceal my excitement over her having almost voluntarily laid her head on my shoulder. The poem always did crack her open. Or maybe it’s the drink.

“You would destroy my dream to be pure,” she mumbles between stanzas. “More.” She holds the glass out for me to fill. My heart pounds. I fill it full of pink champagne and read on.





Chapter Eighteen




Tanechka


The old book is fragile. The binding threadbare. The pages inside are loose, liable to fall out.

Viktor holds it carefully. Reverently.

I stare at his hands, so strong and sinewy. His fingers are thick and his knuckles rough with life, but he cradles the book as though he loves it, and from the way he reads, I think that he does.

Watching him cradle the book in this way makes me feel so very melancholy.

I don’t know whether it is because of the poem or because of not remembering the poem. It doesn’t matter. I hear the poem now, and it twists me inside. The poet lives his life in a prison cell, but when he sees beauty outside, he’s not sad anymore.

I finish the drink. Bubbles and candy. I put down my glass wishing for more. I look over at the icon of Jesus and try to remember the way the light shone out from his eyes and the way it lit the faces of the goats.

Jesus feels far away.

Viktor transfers the book to one hand and stretches his free hand around my shoulder, pulling me closer. I shouldn’t allow it, but I feel so tired and lonely, and I think I’ll just rest a bit before fighting him again.

A truce. Peace.

I shouldn’t allow it. He knows how to make my body feel good.

He pulls the band from my hair and makes it fall out. He takes a ribbon of my hair between his fingers, smoothing his thumb up and down. I resist the impulse to turn my face to his hand and kiss it. He knows too many things about me that I don’t know.

“Lisichka?”

“I don’t remember,” I tell him sadly. “It makes me feel lost not to remember things you know.”