Page 51 of One For my Enemy

At least for now. Until the sun rose, and everything changed.

She could see his hesitation. “If you’d prefer me to leave,” she offered drily, pointedly, and his mouth twitched, a helpless step drawing him closer.

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

She nodded. “It’s nice,” she said, running her hands over his dresser and inspecting her fingertips. No dust. Marya would appreciate his sense of cleanliness, Sasha thought, and winced.

She turned to him sharply. “My sister is dead, Lev. My favorite sister. My best one.”

He said nothing.

“My family will come for her killer.”

Again, Lev didn’t speak.

“Would you deny us that?” she asked, not sure whether she intended to mock him or to truly know the answer. “You and your brothers, are you any different from us?”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Sasha murmured. “So, this may be the only night we’ll ever have, Lev Fedorov.” She paused, leaning back against his dresser; indiscreetly eyeing the motions he had yet to take between them, and the distance he hadn’t yet closed. “Do you want to spend it discussing the weather,” she asked, “or do you have something more satisfying in mind?”

“You’re hurting,” Lev said neutrally. “You think I can fix it?” He shook his head. “I can’t.”

It was surprisingly dismissive, at least for him. “Fine.” Sasha stiffened, turning away. “Take me back, then.”

“No,” he retorted, all stubborn angles and wild glances, and she glared at him. “Only if you want to leave,” he amended with a grimace, “and I know you don’t.”

Sasha bristled. “Suddenly you’re an expert in what I want?”

“Not an expert. Only a fairly good observer.”

The assertion pricked at her, set her on edge. “Show me, then,” Sasha snarled, rounding on him. “Show me how good you are,” she beckoned, drawing him close enough to slide her hand down his torso, and he caught her fingers, holding them still.

“I don’t want your anger,” he said, and she recoiled, irritated, though he didn’t release her hand.

“What do you want, then?” she said. “My grief? Is that it?”

“If it’s real, yes,” Lev permitted, shrugging. His hand was firm against hers, his breath shifting underneath it, and she hated that he was always so shameless with his demands. She didn’t want him on his knees, true, but she would have preferred a marginal softening of his chin; even a single degree of humility might have set her rattled nerves at ease. “If that’s what you feel, then it’s what I want.”

“You want me to cry on your shoulder, Lev Fedorov? You want me to be your damsel in distress? It won’t happen. I’m an Antonova,” she warned, “and you’re about to find out exactly what that means.”

If it struck him as prophetic, he merely shivered without a word.

“Sasha,” he said, his hand tightening on hers, “don’t be stupid.”

Strangely, she breathed a little easier at that; at the brief window of normalcy.

“I want you,” he murmured, twining her fingers with his, “and you have me so easily, without lifting a finger. But don’t use me.”

“Then use me instead,” she flung at him, trying to pull her hand away again and failing, rooted by his touch. “Weren’t you supposed to be easy?”

“Sasha.” He pulled her in close, holding her tighter as she resisted. “Sasha, if your heart is broken, sex isn’t going to fix it—”

“Then why did you bring me here?” she gritted angrily. “Why am I here, Lev? Just let me—just let mego—”

She beat a fist against his chest, furious and frustrated and faltering, the pain in her chest not remotely eased, but he didn’t relent. He turned his head, flinching slightly as she glared at him, but didn’t ease his hold.

“If I lost my brother, I would chase his soul to the end of the world,” Lev said quietly, and Sasha stopped struggling for a moment, pausing at the weary timbre of his voice. “If it were me, Sasha, I’d want to strike down everything in my path, just like this, so believe me, I understand—but if I can only have you as a fire, Sasha, as a flame of what you are, then I want you to burn for me. Do you understand? I’ll hold you if you want me to,” he whispered, his voice a crook of a finger to the tendrils of her heart. “Want me to keep you close, Sasha, keep you safe? I’ll do it. But if I’m going to know things—intimate things, like how you prefer to be touched,” he said, firmly, in a man’s voice—alover’svoice—“things I know I’ll never be able to rid from my mind—then do me a favor and let me be selfish. Let me imagine you might have come to my bed forme,even if I can never h-”

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