Page 38 of 10 Days to Surrender

The words don’t compute at first. Then: “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Yes,” he rumbles. “Every day since you left.”

I scoot back. Rotting pew creaks under my weight. “Did Dragan hit you in the head and give you amnesia? Did you forget literally every single thing that happened?”

“I haven’t forgotten a single thing, Ariel.” His voice and face are scarily solemn. “I wanted to tell you. About Jasmine. Leander. All of it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t. Because I’m a selfish bastard who wanted to hold onto you for longer than I deserved. I thought keeping you in the dark would let me have that. But I was wrong, Ariel. Now, the universe has gifted me a chance to fix my mistakes. I want to. I want to fix them so fucking badly.” His eyes sear into me. “Can I? For us? Forthem?”

I’m dumbstruck. It wouldn’t be right to say I wished for this—most of the time, I’ve spent my waking hours cursing Sasha’s name and wishing I’d never met him at all.

But I’ve dreamed about it. To see his eyes again, burning not with fury but with apology. I didn’t know—and I still don’t—how he could ever mend the gap he tore open between us. I wanted him to try, though. I dreamed he might.

So what do I do about it now that it’s here?Forgive and forgetare three very simple words.

They’re insane words, though. They’re impossible.

“No, Sasha, you can’t.” I press my shaking hands to my belly to ground and comfort me. “These babies aren’t your redemption arc.”

For a heartbeat, I think he’ll kiss me. Crush the arguments between our tangled tongues.

Instead, he accepts what I said with a nod. “Okay. But I won’t quit on this, Ariel. I won’t quit on us. I won’t quit on them.”

The chapel breathes with the ghosts of better people. But the silence that was so nice a minute ago is killing me now, so I stand and start the long walk back to the bicycles.

Sasha follows me, though he stays at a distance. He does the same as we ride home. Close enough for me to feel him, to know he’s always with me. Far enough for him to know that some things can’t be undone.

I steal glances at him whenever we round a bend. My jaw stays clenched against hope, against fear, against the devastating weight ofmaybe.

Notyes. Neveryes. But…

Maybe.

15

SASHA

Ariel goes upstairs to lie down when we get home, tired from the morning’s exertion. She doesn’t say a word as she leaves. But I do hear her footsteps pause halfway up the stairs, like she’s torn. That’s what I tell myself, at least. Could be a fucking fantasy for all I know.

As I haul the groceries into the villa’s kitchen, one item burns a hole in the burlap sack. The peach I swiped from the market is perfect. Overripe, velvet skin flushed red-gold and splitting at the cleft. Exactly how Ariel used to smell whenever I buried my face between her thighs.

For one second, I let myself indulge. I sink onto a wobbling stool and press the fruit to my nose. I push my thumb into its flesh to test the give. A bead of juice wells up and slides down my knuckle. Sweet, sticky, beautiful.

“Fuck.”

Then I drop the peach into a cracked ceramic bowl like it scalded me.

Cooking is a tactical retreat. I dice onions, crush garlic under the flat of my knife, let the sizzle of olive oil in the pan drown out the static in my skull. The recipe itself is muscle memory—sofrito, tomatoes, a splash of wine from the dusty bottle Kosti unearthed in the cellar.

It’s easy to let my mind mute itself. Or at least, it is for a little while—until the knife slips and nips at the meat of my hand between thumb and forefinger.

“Blyat’.”

I snatch up a rag and press it to the wound. It’s not deep, but the pain is bright enough to ruin the too-brief high of cooking.

I don’t know what to blame. It’s been a hell of a few days, end-capped with thirty-some sleepless hours since we arrived in Tuscany. I’ve spent longer awake in worse conditions—a week guarding Yakov’s drug shipment in Vladivostok comes to mind—but my body is protesting.

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