His gaze bored into mine. “I will never hurt you. Now, change the subject.”
Discouragement welled—until I realized he’d just given me an entrée. “The new subject is you.”
He exhaled. “I told you that I have difficulty talking about myself.”
“Probably because you never do it. I want to know you, Sevastyan. As well as you know me. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask, considering our circumstances.”
He swallowed. This man had launched himself in front of a hail of bullets to save my life. He’d braved even more to fight off Gleb and secure our escape. Yet he dreaded opening up to me?
How to get him to understand I wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t run screaming? “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty broad-minded. I wish you could talk to me, confide in me.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in a relationship. And each secret confided between us is another stone in our foundation. Hey, let’s just start with some soft-pitch questions. If you really don’t want to answer, you can say pass.”
He brusquely said, “Ask.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Used to be blue.” He reached forward to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “Now it’s red.”
“What do you like to read?”
Still gazing at his twirling finger, he said, “History papers. On women and gender.”
Clever. “Have you been to prison?”
“Twice. Neither time for too long. Paxán got me freed quickly enough.” A flash of anguish crossed his face.
I forced myself to continue. “Those tattoos on your knees . . . you’re a vor yourself?”
He dropped my lock of hair. “Yes.” No explanation. No unpacking.
“Are you the head vor of Paxán’s syndicate now?”
“Depends. I don’t have enough information to answer that yet.” He was starting to shut down again.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No.”
“Any family living?” I asked.
“None.”
“What were your parents like?”
“Pass.”
“Is there anything you’ll tell me about your past? Look, I don’t need to know things you did for your job, but I want to know about your childhood.”
“Why is that so important to you?”
“I’m a historian, Sevastyan—I’m going to want to know your history.” I scrambled for another question. “When did you know what your particular interests were?”
He shrugged again. “That’s behind us.”
I murmured, “Don’t say that. You opened my eyes to all these new things”—for some reason, he flinched at that—“and now I want more. I can’t go back, Sevastyan.”