“I’d sensed something was off with Filip. Yet I ignored my instincts. I should’ve said something.”
Sevastyan shook his head. “I’d told Paxán about my misgivings, but he was ever loyal to his friends. He felt like he owed more to Filip, wouldn’t heed my advice. I should’ve fought him, made him see reason.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “We’re both blaming ourselves. Maybe we should blame Filip? Or Travkin?”
In a low tone, Sevastyan admitted, “I wish I could kill Travkin again.”
Reminded of what he’d done, I asked, “Why did you walk into the lion’s den to assassinate him? Why not wait?”
“The minute he marked you for death, he ensured his own. No one will ever hurt you. No one . . .” Sevastyan’s hand on my back paused; he tensed all around me.
“What? What’s wrong?”
I followed his gaze, saw my reflection in the dresser mirror. There were fingertip-sized bruises on my hip and ass.
In a hoarse voice, he said, “I did this to you?”
I peered up, saw an expression I’d never seen on his face.
Fear.
Because the only thing that could scare a man like Sevastyan . . . was himself.
He set me on the bed as if I were made of porcelain, then stood to leave, his posture stiff. “I left bruises.” He looked wrecked by this, which wouldn’t do.
So I tried to lighten the mood. “Please. I bruise from harsh language. Besides, this is kind of the nature of the beast, no?” He’d whipped women before, bound them. “Surely you’ve seen this in the past.”
He didn’t relax whatsoever, conflict clear in his expression. “No. Not from my hand.”
Because Sevastyan had never been with the same woman twice? When Paxán had told me that, I’d kind of thought he was exaggerating. But it was likely Sevastyan had never stuck around to see the aftermath of his appetites.
I sensed him slipping away from me. “I’m perfectly fine. You liked when my ass was sore,” I reminded him. “How is this different?”
“It’s different. Now.” He handed me a robe.
With a frown, I donned it. “Now that what?”
“We’ll discuss this later. We have a long day ahead of us.”
He wouldn’t look at me, was closing down right before my eyes. Now that we’d made love, I thought that we would be entering into a new stage of our relationship. In which, you know, we talked.
But it was as if a draft had soughed into the air between us. “In the banya, you told me not to wake up. I feel like I should be telling you the same. You’re pulling away, and I don’t know why.”
“I have something for you.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket, handed it to me. “It was in Paxán’s cabin, in his safe.” The back was sealed with a red wax circle. I recognized Paxán’s fanciful calligraphic handwriting on the front.
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.