Page 50 of One For my Enemy

Stupid.

I know

Guilty.

Sasha I swear to fucking god nobody will ever hurt you, I will never, ever, let anyone hurt you, I won’t let them touch you, I’ll burn the world down myself before anyone ever lays a hand on you

He sighed, deleting the words, and shook his head.

LEV:i’m coming

Then he tucked his phone into his pocket, shivering as he stepped back out into the night.

III. 3

(Watch Me Burn.)

She was waiting for him outside, hair loose, eyes dry.

“You will need to carry on as we’d planned,” Yaga had informed Sasha, as if nothing had changed. The Fedorovs, Yaga explained, had tried to destroy them, and therefore there was only one avenue. Business as usual, and somehow, Sasha had come to reason internally that it was for the best. It wasn’t enough to cry for Marya, who wouldn’t want tears. If Marya were here, Sasha knew, she would merely stroke one finger down Sasha’s cheek and whisper,Sasha, my Sashenka, we are Antonova witches and we do not weep for loss.

Sasha raised her chin, swallowing sorrow; it would be rage soon enough. Until then, she wanted comfort. She wanted warmth, devotion, touch. She wanted Lev Fedorov, and the moment his face appeared, cheeks pink from cold, she felt something monstrous untwist its hold on her heart, if only for an instant. The wind had whipped the dark strands of his hair into his eyes and he blinked them away, not taking his gaze from hers.

“Sasha,” he said, her name mournful on his tongue, and she pulled him into her and kissed him, her hands tightly grasping the collar of his coat. Could he really taste so sweet, being her enemy? There was no doubt he was, and maybe the scathing cosmic joke of it all was that she’d known it all along, instinctively. Maybe the hilarity had always been in ever thinking she could have him, and now it bubbled and curdled in her throat, burning with the acidity of a mirthless laugh. Marya would disapprove, surely, but where was she to do so now? The thought struck at Sasha with the recalcitrance of loss and she flinched, tugging Lev close, her icy fingers clutching the line of his jaw until he pulled back, breathless.

“Sasha,” he exhaled, his hands idly shifting to warm her arms, “is now really the time to—”

“Lev,” she murmured in curt retort, not letting go. “Can you honestly promise me there will be another time?”

They both knew better. Whatever the joke was, he was in on it, too. By now, though, they also knew the taste of wanting, and so he hesitated, as she’d known he would, lips red and bitten from her kiss. “Where do you want to go?” he asked eventually, eyes fluttering shut with resignation, and she shook her head.

“Anywhere,” she said, stiffening. “Nowhere.”

His grip on her tightened. “Sasha—”

“Lev.” She slid her hands down from his face to settle her thumbs in the dip of his collarbone, resting them there. He wasn’t wearing a scarf. Neither of them had ever been prepared for weathering anything. “Don’t be a gentleman right now. We might not have time for an entire book.”

“Don’t say that,” he managed, mouth dry. “Please don’t say that.”

Sasha leaned forward, lips against his cheek. “Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov,” she whispered to him. “Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that a story, too?” she asked him softly.

He hesitated. “This isn’t the story I wanted for us.”

“It never is,” replied Sasha, who knew better.

Lev shuddered, reaching behind him; with a rip, they tore through space, spiraling out of the grips of physicality and reappearing in the cool air of a room, empty of sound, all the lights extinguished. Sasha looked around, identifying landmarks as they came into focus: bookshelf. Dresser. Nightstand. Bed. A single open window, an airy white curtain blowing out into the night.

“It’s winter, Lev,” she said. “You’re going to get pneumonia.”

“I was listening for you,” he said, confirming her suspicions: this was his bedroom, then.

His space. His place.

She took a step away from him, heading to the window. They were somewhere downtown still, the sights and sounds familiar. How often had she been below, somewhere wandering the ground, while he’d been above, looking down at the steps of her life without knowing it? How many times had she shaded her eyes from the sun, not knowing Lev stood above, looking on overhead?

She slid a hand into the night, testing the wind. It felt different now, living in a world where Marya was gone. All the space of it, and the city below, felt empty.

She thought to close the window and then thought better of it, turning to Lev. He stood still, waiting, feet planted; his motion had ceased for her. His world had stopped for her, and hers for him.

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