Page 46 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I look at the price tag and let out a low whistle. “Fifteen thousand? I’ll rummage behind the couch and see if I can rustle up some loose change!”

I groan and point at the podium’s red ‘SOLD’ sticker. “Ah, damn. I guess I’ll have to find another piece of pottery to spend a fortune on.”

Leon frowns. “You’re smarter than this. I refuse to spell it out for you.”

“I don’t—oh!” My eyes widen, and Leon laughs. “You bought it already?”

“This event was invite only; to get an invitation, you had to make at least one purchase via the catalog before the exhibition opened. I went online earlier this week and got into a bidding war for this planter. Fifteen was the starting price, but it’s okay; I have a platinum Amex and an excellent accountant, so I can probably write it off against something.”

I stare, astonished. “What the Hell did you end up paying?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s not for you, anyway. It’s for Phil.”

“I thought you were jealous of him.”

He wrinkles his nose. “A little. But he has no hands, feet, or anything else you might prefer in a man. There’s a joke here about deflowering, but I’m not smart enough to work it out, so can I have the laugh anyway?”

I giggle, and his eyes light up. “Wait,” I say. “A platinum Amex. Was it your card on Krissy’s account for the wedding stuff?”

“I thought you knew that already,” Leon says, shaking his head at me. “Damn. And I thought I wasn’t getting enough appreciation for my generosity.”

He counts off his points on his fingers as he talks. “I sent you the flowers, called up your wedding planner, and gave you a limitless budget?—”

“—and sneaked into my home, listened to me masturbate, jerked off in the dark beside me, then noticed my Studio Ghibli stuff?”

A woman stares at me, and I lower my voice. “You’re problematic, Leon, you really are. Thank you for the planter, although I have no idea how I’ll get it back to my place when I leave.”

A flash of pure misery crosses Leon’s face. It’s fleeting, but it punches a hole straight through me. He hides it with a practiced smile, but its weight lingers, heavy and unspoken.

He’s so hard to read. I wonder if he hides behind wisecracks and charm so I won’t see how hard he’s fighting himself.

I know he’s keeping things from me—dark things. But I can’t bring myself to push, not when glimpses of his sadness and regret make me think there’s more to him than obsession.

“Your stuff is at my place now, courtesy of Viktor and his movers,” Leon says, his tone deliberately light. “So I guess he’ll take it back when our month together ends. Don’t ask for a warehouse full of gold bullion, or it might take several trips.”

At Leon’s apartment, I set about unpacking my things. I insist on tacking up my posters and shifting several abstract ornaments to make space for my trinkets.

I thought the invasion of his space would annoy him, but he sits in an armchair and watches me, a smile playing on his lips.

It’s the kind of quiet, reflective expression that softens his sharp edges, but there’s something else there, too. A melancholy he doesn’t know how to put into words.

“Don’t you care about any of it?” I ask. “This is your home, and I’m ruffling it up, ruining the order.”

“This place was never a home,” he replies, “but it is now. Your touch warms every cold corner,val’kiriya.”

I stop and look at him. “What does that word mean?”

“Val’kiriya? It’s Russian for Valkyrie. They were the female warriors in Norse mythology who decided who would die in battle and conducted them to Valhalla.”

“And you thought that nickname suited me?”

“From the moment I met you. Except the battle is yours. You don’t decide; you fight for everyone, breathing life into people with one foot in the hereafter.”

He pauses, looking me up and down. “Ever thought of fighting for yourself, Emery?”

His words land hard, and I sit on the couch, considering the question.

“I used to. There was a time when I liked myself and thought I deserved good things. Then my mom died, and nothing was the same. Dad and I drifted apart, afraid to love one another like we used to for fear of feeling the pain of loss all over again.”

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