Page 85 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

But I wasn’t angry.Not at him.

How could I be?I knew the weight he carried, because I carried it too.

Our lives, this twisted little theater we put on day after day, were breaking both of us.The lies, the roles, the fear baked into our bones.He wanted more.So did I.But where would we find it?Siberia?A cold cell with peeling walls and iron bars?

I didn’t want to be married to Vera.God, no.But what choice did I have?What choice did she have?

If the world ever found out what Vera and I truly were… if someone even suspected… we’d both be swept off the map.Our names erased, our families disgraced.The Party would make examples of us.

And Dimitri didn’t understand this.Not really.

If he were arrested—interrogated—if they got him alone in some damp room and turned up the pressure, would he hold out?Or would he tell them my marriage was a sham?Would he mean to?Or would it just spill out?A stray truth let loose in the dark?

I’d kept it from him to protect Vera.To protect all of us.But sometimes I caught the look in his eyes, like he was wondering whether I cared about her more than I cared about him.

God.

I reached the fourth floor and paused, breath shallow, heart thudding.The hallway was dim.A bulb overhead had blown out weeks ago, and no one had replaced it.Probably never would.I fished my key from my pocket, fingers trembling, and unlocked the door.

Inside, the warmth hit me first, and then the sight of Nina and Pavel on the couch, both sprawled out like they’d melted into the cushions, reading by the yellow glow of a crooked floor lamp.

“Hey,” Nina said without looking up.

Pavel nodded once.“You’re late.”

“Long ride,” I mumbled, kicking off my boots.

“You bring back any dacha mushrooms, or just broken dreams?”Nina asked, flipping a page.

I huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.“Mostly broken dreams.”

They chuckled, and I almost hated them for it.

As I hung my coat on the wall hook, an idea hit me.This building, this apartment, these people.All of us living in glass jars with painted labels.Who were Nina and Pavel, really?Were they like me and Vera?Were they hiding, trembling, swallowing down their real selves each day before stepping outside?Or were they loyal sons and daughters of the Party, gobbling up every bullshit line about patriotism and sacrifice like it was honey?

I’d never know.And I realized I didn’t care.I didn’t have the energy to give a damn.

“Goodnight,” I muttered, and they both returned it in distracted, overlapping tones.

I slipped down the narrow hallway toward my room—our room—and opened the door.

The desk lamp was on, its weak light spreading across a sea of papers.Vera sat hunched over her desk, pen in hand, her braid looped low and a little loose like it always got when she was deep in work.She didn’t look up right away, just scribbled something fiercely and then dropped the pen with a frustrated clatter.

“The Ministry of Agricultural Logistics,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.“They want a presentation by Thursday.They won’t read it, of course, but they want to see us standing there with charts and ‘commitment.’”Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

She turned to me then, leaning against the desk with tired grace.“How was the weekend with Dimitri?”

I must’ve made a face.Something flickered across hers—concern, maybe, or recognition—and then she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around me.

Tight.

I hadn’t expected it.I didn’t think I had anything left to give.But the second she touched me, my breath caught.My hands hung limp at my sides.I didn’t have the strength to lift them.

The hug felt like shelter.Like she was holding up both of us so we didn’t fall through the floor.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t cry.

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