with Maison du Mystère. When I was still partners with Maggie.”
My throat knots. “Is… Is that why you really quit?” I ask carefully.
He shakes his head. “No. I mean, I’m sure it made it easier. But I was telling the truth when I said I quit because of Maggie.” He clenches his jaw, his eyes burning into the hot liquid. “She—she knew my mom died before I did. Her parents called her first, on the morning of one of our performances, because they wanted her to tell me in person. They thought it would make it easier. But she kept it to herself all day—waited until after our performance to tell me.” He takes a deep breath, like it’s been a long time since he’s told this story. I wonder if he’s ever told it at all. “Turns out there was a scout in the audience for some big show in New York. She didn’t want to risk the performance. She was afraid that when I found out about my mom, I wouldn’t want to perform that night, and she needed me.”
“Oh my God,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry, Vas. That’s awful.”
“It’s not your fault.” He looks at me with a weak smile. “But thanks.”
“What about your brothers?” I ask, remembering what he told me about them getting into trouble. “Are they…?”
“Dead? No.” Vas thins his mouth, and the relief I’d expect from his answer doesn’t seem to exist. “But we don’t talk. I think they resented me a lot growing up—they thought our mother coddled me. And when she passed away, they wanted me to come back to Russia—help with the family business.” He’s choosing his words so carefully, I wonder if “business” is just the term he uses in polite conversation. He shrugs. “But I haven’t lived in Russia for a long time. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. And they don’t feel like family.”
“It’s not… too much, is it? Performing when you have so much history? Because if it is, please tell me,” I say. “I don’t want you to do something if it hurts you.”
Vas shrugs. “I don’t mind performing. I spent a lot of years training—I’ve worked hard to get to the level I’m at, and I don’t regret that. So no, it’s not too much. But sometimes I wonder how far I could’ve gone if I had put everything into music. I guess maybe some dreams are meant to stay dreams.”
He turns the stove off and scoops some of the hot liquid into two mugs before joining me at the small table.
I blow at the steam, testing the side of the mug with my fingertips and pulling them away when they get too hot.
Vas grins. “You’re so impatient.”
“Character flaw,” I say, making a goofy face.
He watches the steam rise, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Have you told your parents about next week?”
My heart stops.
“I know you said they don’t support you,” Vas says, “but I know what it would probably mean to you to have them there.”
I shake my head. “Even if they came, I’d feel like it wouldn’t be for the right reasons. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, or obligated to show up. I wanted them to care right from the start. And, I don’t know, I guess I’d rather they didn’t come at all than have to beg them.”
He nods, taking a careful sip of his drink. I do the same and feel myself overcome with warmth.
“Wow,” I say. “I definitely like sbiten.”
He laughs. “I’m glad.”
When we’ve finished our drinks, Vas takes the dishes to the sink and starts rinsing them under the tap. And I don’t know if it’s the curve of his shoulders, or his adorably pointed ears, or even the way his hair is hanging at his temples, but I suddenly want to wrap my arms around him.
So I do.
The faucet creaks, and I feel him press his wet fingers against my hands. He turns, slowly at first, and then our fingers are lost behind each other’s necks, our lips closing against each other’s parted mouths like we don’t care about coming up for air.
I run my hands under his clothes, gripping the hard muscles of his sides, and I guess he’s impatient too because he yanks the shirt up over his head and flings it to the floor, lips returning to mine.
When my eyes drift down to the smooth, bare skin of his chest, I see the tattoo trailing down the