Page 123 of One For my Enemy

“Everyone’s got mommy problems,” Bryn said, shrugging. “It’s not magic. Just an easy guess.”

Marya sighed. “Bridge, you exhaust me.”

“I could—”

“Stop.” She slid a finger through the air, lacing his lips together. “I hate to miss my parting witticism, but truly. My patience is thin.”

He smiled at her, suggestively. She rolled her eyes.

“I heard that,” she said, but walked away, leaving him behind.

She had questions to be answered. Fae lawyers would have to wait.

V. 8

(Détente.)

Dimitri wasn’t particularly surprised to find Marya Antonova waiting in his bedroom once again, perched at the edge of his mattress when he walked in.

“Masha,” he said neutrally. “Have you decided to help me, then?”

She eyed him for a second. Today, her dress was structured and navy, her hair twisted up in a knot. This was Marya Antonova, businesswoman. Witch of Significance. She rose to her feet, her stiletto heels tapping the floor as she approached him.

“Dima,” she said. “What are you plotting?”

He stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him.

“Why would I be plotting?” he asked, and her mouth pursed slightly with disapproval.

“Don’t toy with me, Dima. Why are you trying to take Stas’ place?”

Her expression was stiff, suspicious. He stepped closer.

“I’m not,” he said, and leaned towards her, feeling her pulse race from the vial resting against his chest. “You know perfectly well it’s Stas who tookmyplace,” he reminded her, glorying in the way her breath stuck sharply in her throat.

“You know what I mean, Dima,” she warned, and he shrugged.

“I thought you decided there was no need to discuss our secrets? By that logic, my business with the Witches’ Borough is none of yours.”

She scrutinized him openly, puzzling him out without any attempt at discretion.

“You’re doing this without your father’s knowledge, aren’t you?” she guessed. “Certainly without his permission.”

Dimitri said nothing, and her tongue slipped carefully between her berry lips.

“Are you no longer a loyal son of Koschei, Dimitri Fedorov?”

A thud of silence.

A pulse.

Then his arm shot out, snaking around her waist and pulling her closer.

“I told you, Marya Antonova,” he said in a low voice, observing with some triumph her struggle not to soften at his touch. “I told you I was my own man. I told you I would have gone to you if you’d asked me. I told you I would love you until my dying day. Did you think I was a liar?”

Her gaze quietly traced his mouth. She was always too immovable to be startled.

“No,” she said. “No, Dima, you’ve never been a liar.”

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