Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(58)

But it’s not what people like us do. We don’t escape what we are. We can’t live outside the bowl. I won’t let her.

She gazes at the fire. Fire, sky, stars. Tanechka loved pure things. She loved Vartov’s poem about the prison and the darkness and something pure elsewhere.

“Give me the bottle,” I say.

She hands it over, and I drink deeply. I should take her back to that place. I really should.

She lowers her voice to a whisper, as though to confide in me. She says, “I wish I was almost a nun, but I think I’m starting to forget. I feel so cold.”

“Let me warm you,” I say, pulling her close.





Chapter Twenty-Two




Tanechka


There’s blood on his shirt. I don’t say anything because I don’t want him to change. The blood reminds me of what he is.

It doesn’t work, though. It feels sweet when he pulls me to him. I can smell the blood, mixing with the muskiness of his sweat. Instead of pushing him away, I breathe it in.

I have drunk too much. All I could think of all day was what he said to me about how we were together. The way we’d dress up and pretend to be strangers. The way he’d hold my neck.

It’s not just the killing I want to erase from my mind. I want to erase the wild feelings I have for Viktor. The feelings are too big, too confusing, at once dark and light—so much love shot through with so much horror.

It’s too much to be with Viktor. Too dangerous, too beautiful.

I need to get to the convent, to reconnect with my kind. There has to be a key to the iron cuff somewhere, but he knows not to bring it into my range. You never bring the keys around the prisoner. I know this the way I know you never put your hand into the fire.

Because I, too, am a killer.

I push him away and force myself to look at his bloody shirt. This is a person’s blood.

He notes the direction of my gaze. “Tanechka! I am so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?” With a jerk he rips off his tie and fights off his shirt, as if it’s an octopus clinging to him. He pulls it all off himself and tosses it angrily aside. His chest is formed of hardened curves and dips. Two rosy nipples. A smattering of dark hair leading down to his belly. He sits back against the end of the bed.

More beautiful. More dangerous.

I snuggle up next to him. His skin is warm and smooth against my cheek. The touch of him nourishes me in a way that food never has. Something wicked inside me wants the nourishment of Viktor.

He strokes my hair. My eyes drift closed. It’s a comfort to me, the way he strokes my hair, sliding his fingers down the smooth surface of it. “It breaks me apart when you’re sad, lisichka.”

Without thinking, I grab the bottle and drink more. The drink has given me a good feeling I find I want more of. More vodka. More Viktor.

The muscles of his chest shift as he takes the bottle from my fingers, takes a swig for himself. The movement feels ancient. Like old times, probably.

The bare skin above his belt looks softer than the rest. I know exactly how it would feel to place my palm there—smooth and silky warm with just a little roughness from those wiry hairs.

The memory is in my hand.

The memory is in my face, too, because I know how it would feel to press my face there, my lips.

I say, “Back at the convent I had a tiny room with just a bed and a desk. It was a tiny life. I cared for the goats. I was happy.”

He holds the bottle loosely, tilted, the edge of the base resting on the rug, the diamond liquid inside tilted to be parallel to the floor, reflecting the firelight. Deep thoughts in his mind. “Tell me more. Tell me what you loved about it.”

I consider telling him about the icon—I want to, but I hesitate. Instead I tell him about the beauty of the place. How I felt so lost, always so angry and grieving, and the patience and love the mothers there showed me. And how brave they were in the face of the soldiers who would take so much from us. I tell him about the things they’d do to us.

The stories make Viktor angry on my behalf, as though he’s truly united with me. It makes me feel less alone.

“I even loved the goats. I would loll in the grass in the sun while the goats grazed. They would come to me and nuzzle me. They would play.”

“It sounds beautiful,” he says. “So peaceful.”

“You would love it. You would love the mothers there too.”

“Hmm…”

I snatch the bottle from him. “You would.” I drink. “The most amazing thing was when I found the icon.”

He tips his chin to the shelf. “That one?”

“No, it was an old one, thought to be lost. I was on a hillock with the goats, and I saw such a sweet bright light. Like nothing you’ve ever seen, Viktor.”

I don’t know what makes me tell it. I think because it feels so natural to be with him. I tell him how the light shone from Jesus’s face. How the goats gathered. How it felt in my heart. How I ran back to show the mothers, and what they said.

He smooths his thumb along my cheek. I close my eyes. The pull of him is so fierce. The need of him. I want suddenly to be skin on skin with him. I want to drink him up with my body. “You were happy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“I will go back. But only after rescuing the women. I won’t leave until they’re safe. But then, yes. To go back is my heart’s desire.”