Page 44 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

I studied his face.The cracks around his eyes, and the permanent set of his jaw.The way his hands, though large and strong, always looked like they were trying not to shake.

And I wondered.

What had he wanted to be, before the Party got its hooks in him?Had he once dreamed of something else—art, maybe, or science, or standing on a stage and saying something honest to a crowd?Did he ever imagine loving someone who made him feel alive, the way Petyr made me feel?

Or had he always known the price of safety?

Had he made peace with this life, or just learned how to live without ever letting himself want more?

I thought about Mama.About the way they orbited each other without touching.Their carefully separate lives under one roof.It hadn’t occurred to me until now how little affection I’d seen between them.They didn’t fight, but they didn’t laugh together, either.They moved like old coworkers, not lovers.

And now I knew why.

There was no love.Not the kind that mattered.Just a pact between two people who needed to be safe.

The words were stuck in my throat.Was Mama your choice, or just the right camouflage?

But I didn’t.

Because I knew what he’d say.Or worse, what he wouldn’t say.

And did I really want to know the truth?

Wasn’t it enough that I saw it now, all of it, with clear eyes?

“I’m going to lie down,” I said, standing.

He nodded once, like that answer made sense to him.Like maybe he was relieved.

In my room, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a second, and exhaustion settled into my bones.

I stripped off my clothes, folding them with a kind of automatic care, and slid beneath the blanket.The chill of the sheets made me shiver, but I didn’t bother with the extra quilt.

I turned off the light, letting the darkness settle over me like a second skin.

And then Petyr’s face filled the space behind my eyes.

His eyes, the flecks of gold in them.The curve of his smile.The warmth of his fingers brushing mine.His breath against my throat, his laughter in the quiet corners of the ancient bathhouse, the way he looked at me like I was more than just someone surviving.

Sleep pulled at me, slow and heavy.And as I drifted into it, I thought, will Petyr and I ever be free?

ChapterThirteen

Petyr

Spring had come to Leningrad.Outside, the snow had melted into oily puddles that reflected the crooked skyline, and the chestnut trees along the avenue were waking up slow and reluctant, as if they knew better than to trust warm weather this early.

Inside the factory, the mood had shifted.The workers were laughing again, trading off-color jokes and singing half-remembered folk songs above the thrum of the looms.Someone had brought in a flask of something sharp and liquidly illegal, and the air reeked of booze and mischief.

But to me, it still felt like the heart of winter.The kind that sat heavy in your chest and made you forget the smell of grass.

Dimitri worked beside me at the loom, eyes trained on the green wool streaming through the machine like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.His dark hair had grown out just enough to curl at the nape of his neck, and every time he shifted, I caught the faintest whiff of him.It made my ribs ache like I’d been punched.

It had been almost a month since our night at Sanctuary.Since I felt his hands on my face, his breath in my mouth, that sacred silence afterward when we’d just held each other and said nothing, because nothing needed saying.At the time, I’d thought that meant something.I’d thought I’d glimpsed the truth of him.

But now?

Each time I asked to see him, his excuses grew thinner, more practiced.A wall was growing between us, brick by brick, and I couldn’t figure out why.

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