Page 62 of Terror at the Gates

My stomach churned at the thought, and I rolled onto my side, curling into myself. I felt Zahariev’s eyes on me, and after a moment, he reached to turn off the lamp. I thought he was going to leave, but then he stretched out beside me.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t touch.

The silence thickened the air between us. I was on edge, my skin tingling. I couldn’t decide why I felt this way. Maybe it was because in all the time we’d known each other, I’d never been this vulnerable with him before.

Or maybe it was because I wanted him to touch me.

Not in a sexual way. I just wanted to be held by someone who actually cared.

My skin was on fire, burning from the embarrassment of what I wanted to ask.

I took a breath but lost my nerve and stayed silent.

“What’s wrong?” Zahariev asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“And you say I am a terrible liar,” he replied, but even in the dark, I could tell he was amused.

I didn’t argue, silent for only a few seconds before I finally asked.

“Will you…hold me? I just…”

My words dried up. I didn’t really know how to explain why I wanted this. I just did. I needed it.

Zahariev was quiet, but I could feel his gaze.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

I shifted closer to him, and as I rested my head on his chest, he wrapped his arm around me. His other hand closed over mine.

“Is this all right?” he asked. There was a breathy edge to his voice, like the words had come from some unfamiliar place inside him.

“Yeah,” I said, pausing before I whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t speak, but beneath me, he felt tense, building a wall between himself and my gratitude.

I could hear the words he didn’t speak—don’t thank me. They were words he’d said hundreds of times.

I’m not just saying it, I’d said, recognizing that the expression had little meaning given our backgrounds. All our lives, we’d been taught to express thanks—to our parents, to the church, to God, none of which had given me a fraction of what Zahariev had.

I know, but I don’t need it. Not from you.

I didn’t understand then, and I didn’t understand now, but I still felt like it was important to say it.

Zahariev’s warmth eased the tension in my body. I pressed the palm of my hand harder against his chest so I could feel the beat of his heart and relaxed against him, my eyes growing heavy.

“Did Cassius find Tori?”

“He did,” Zahariev confirmed.

“He never hurt anyone,” I said, whispering now. I was so tired.

“It wasn’t about hurting anyone,” said Zahariev. “It was about what he said.”

“Everyone knows what he preached was nonsense,” I said.

I expected him to agree, but even his silence felt conflicted.

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