Page 93 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Ivan didn’t speak as he pulled into the street, eyes forward, hands tight on the wheel.

As the station disappeared behind us, I couldn’t stop the thought from curling through my chest like ice.

Was he taking us home to help us?

Or to bury what we were, permanently?

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Dimitri

Isat in the back seat of my father’s Lada with my hands clenched between my knees, trying not to shake.

The vinyl upholstery stuck to my skin, and every breath I took felt like it caught on a hook in my ribs.I couldn’t stop looking at Petyr, even though I barely had the strength to lift my head.He was sitting beside me, his face turned toward the window, the passing streetlights throwing lines of gold across his bruised cheek.He looked so calm.Detached.Like someone had reached inside him and turned off a switch.

God, I wanted to hold him.Just fold myself into him and press my forehead to his chest and cry until it all came out—until I was empty.But I couldn’t.Not here.Not under the weight of my father’s silence, or the steady thrum of the engine, or the eyes I felt on the back of my neck even when I knew no one was watching.

My stomach twisted.I couldn’t tell if it was leftover fear or shame or both.Probably both.

The bruises on my arms pulsed like they were lit from within.

They’d handcuffed me to a table.Then they’d walked in like wolves, and when I asked what was happening, the first one backhanded me so hard my ear rang.They kept asking about Sanctuary.Who I went with.Who I saw.I told them the truth: I hadn’t gone inside.Petyr and I had just been walking.That’s it.

It hadn’t helped.

They didn’t believe me, of course.They said I was covering for “the rat,” and one of them, an older man, tall, with a nose that looked like it had been broken numerous times, called me a queer-loving whore and slammed my head into the table.I kept telling myself not to cry.If I cried, they’d know.I tasted blood and bile in the back of my throat, nevertheless, I just kept repeating it: We didn’t go inside.We didn’t know what it was.

When they told me it was a faggot club, I made myself gasp.Like it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever heard.I think I even spat on the floor.My voice cracked when I swore I’d never go near it again.

The car jolted as we hit a pothole, snapping me out of it.My hands had curled into fists without me realizing, fingernails digging half-moons into my palms.Petyr shifted beside me with a wince, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from reaching for him again.

I was terrified that if I touched him, or even looked at him the wrong way, my father would know everything.

His hands gripped the steering wheel like he wanted to tear it off.His jaw was a brick, unmoving, and I couldn’t tell if he was furious or terrified or just empty.

When he finally spoke, it felt like a blade sliding out of the dark.

“Where do you live?”he asked, without looking back.

Petyr’s voice was hoarse.“Lermontovskaya.Just off Kirochnaya.”

My father grunted.“Mm.”

That was all.The engine growled as he turned onto a narrower street, tires bumping against uneven cobblestones.I stared at the back of his head and wondered what would happen if I opened the door and rolled myself out into the street.

It would’ve hurt less than this.

Two minutes later, we pulled up outside Petyr’s building.The lights were off in most of the windows, but a lone bulb flickered above the front entrance like it was trying to die.The car idled in the cold.

Petyr said nothing.He just opened the door slowly, like it hurt to move, and climbed out.I watched the way he limped as he climbed up the steps.He didn’t glance back.Not once.The door closed behind him with a hollow echo.

And I couldn’t breathe.

I pressed my knuckles to my mouth and tried not to make a sound.

The car started moving again.

My father hadn’t spoken.Hadn’t asked me why we’d been taken, or what had happened in there.He didn’t need to.The silence said enough.

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