Page 58 of Unspoken

"Does that mean you hate what you do now?"

"Yes and no."

"What falls under the 'yes' category then?"

I pause to think about my answer. Being honest, considering whom I’m protecting, seems almost unkind. "I suppose it’s the fact that I failed. I failed being what my father was. Failed being a cop."

"I’m sorry," Sasha says quietly, his voice barely there, mixed with the rumble of the boat. "For what it’s worth, you’re good at what you do."

I offer him a bitter smile, wondering why I’m here with him, breaking the rules of professional conduct. But this moment of hesitation passes and I then remember the reason. No, I feel it. With every fiber of my being. I’m here because Sasha Solovey isn’t just another money bag to protect anymore.

He’s someone more.

We’ve been dancing around this tension for a while now. Who am I to say no to him when he’s begging me to give him what he and I both want?

"Thanks," I whisper a bitter reply to his compliment.

"Besides, you said you miss protecting people," he murmurs. "Aren’t you protecting me now?"

"True."

The conversation lulls between us, simple words brimming with undeclared meanings until we both find ourselves standingby the railing staring at the water as the boat drifts on its own course through the lake.

"Can I ask you something?" I’ve finally worked up the courage to pose the question I’ve been wanting to ask ever since the rooftop kiss.

"Sure."

"Back on the rooftop," I venture, my gaze set on the horizon where the sun threatens to bleed into the mountain peaks, "why did you really ask me to keep that kiss a secret?"

There’s a long stretch of silence before Sasha finally supplies an answer. "You know why." He’s not looking at me. His eyes are on the water lapping against the hull. "If Vlad finds out, you’ll get fired."

"And you’ll be dead… That’s what you said… So why?"

He hesitates, as though weighing the cost of truth against the value of safety. "In my family... being who I am...the way I am…" His voice trails off, and he looks down at his hands, clenching the railing.

"Queer?" I say, not quite a question, but a clarification—a light shone into shadowy corners.

He nods, just once, a movement so slight it could be mistaken for surrender.

"Back in my home country men are expected to be strong and unyielding." His laugh is bitter, a sharp twist of lips without humor. "Being gay—it's seen as a weakness, a flaw to be eradicated."

The words are like an indictment of a world too cold for the warmth of difference. "What about your family?"

He turns, and I catch the glint of pain in his eyes, green depths clouded by memories best forgotten. "They're no different. If anything, worse."

"Because of the reputation?" I guess, already knowing the answer.

"Exactly." His tone is flat, resigned. "To them, image is everything. My father... He'd rather exile me than have a son that tainted his precious name."

"Exile?"

Sasha nods again. "Do you know why I was the only one in our family to study overseas?"

"Why?"

"When I was caught with another boy, my father beat me within an inch of my life. Then he sent me away, to London. Not for education, but because I was a disgrace and he didn’t want for the rumors to spread."

I watch as he wraps his arms around himself, a futile attempt to shield from the chill of the past. "I was an embarrassment to the Solovey name," he whispers, and the hurt reverberates through the quiet, echoing against the vast expanse of the lake. "My father feared that if anyone found out, it would reflect poorly on him. That it would make him less of a man because he couldn't raise his son right."

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