Page 29 of White Wolf

“Monsieur Philippe,” Pyotr corrected.

To Sasha’s surprise, he glanced up and found Kolya watching him, hands moving deftly to polish the knife. In a low voice: “He lets himself get too hungry. It’s not good for him. He passes out sometimes.”

“Oh,” Sasha said, not knowing what else to say.

“He never listens to me.” His brows lifted, expression strangely pointed.

Sasha sucked at his lip and looked down at the remains of his meal in his lap. He’d eaten all of the sausage, too hungry to pass up the fatty meat. But there was bread left, and a chunk of cheese. What was Kolya saying? That he should try to get the man to eat? His captor?

The idea was ludicrous.

And yet.

He stood just as Philippe arrived.

“Young Sasha,” he greeted, beaming. “You look well-rested.”

The old man smiledso much. He shouldn’t fault him for it, but he felt too off-balance to deal with it at the moment.

“Excuse me,” he said, ducking around him and heading toward the front of the car.

The captain was reading, a newspaper open on his lap, eyes tracking quickly across the page.

Sasha eased down into the seat across from him, clearing his throat quietly, politely.

The captain held up a finger.Wait. Read a few moments more and then lifted his head. His gaze moved up and down the length of Sasha before settling on his face. “They’re poor company, I know. A bunch of animals.” But it was said with affection.

Sasha bit his lip, uncertain. Now that he was here, sitting across from him, he felt foolish. Why would he make an overture of kindness to any of these men?

And yet he found himself offering the food out on a flat palm, as if feeding a carrot to a horse.

The captain’s brows went up. “What?”

“Kolya said…” Sasha hated the way his voice came out small and squeaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Kolya said you needed to eat. Or else you’d faint.”

The captain shot a dirty look over his shoulder that Kolya of course couldn’t see, muttering to himself. It sounded likeassholeto Sasha. “I’m fine,” he groused. But then, softening. “But thank you.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.” Sasha gave his hand a little wave, repeating the offer.

The captain frowned. “You’re young and thin. You should eat.”

“I can’t eat anymore. Please.”

The captain –Nikita, Sasha reminded himself – cocked his head, frown becoming thoughtful. “Nervous stomach?”

“A little.”

A beat passed. Then Nikita – it was easier to think of him by his name, to know he was a man and not a weapon – leaned forward and took the bit of bread from Sasha’s palm, the tips of his fingers smooth and hard with old calluses. He nodded his thanks and broke it in half, took a tentative bite with a wince. Like a man eating through a wave of sickness, Sasha thought, as opposed to the other men’s enthusiastic chomping.

He took another bite and gestured toward the paper he’d set aside on the seat. “Have you seen? They’re saying the Germans are on the run.”

Sasha shook his head, glad for the hair that fell in his eyes, wishing it was longer to cover the blush he felt coming up in his cheeks. “I don’t really keep up with the news,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think so. Well.” Another bite of bread, this one seeming easier. He leaned back in the seat and folded his free arm across his middle. “You heard about Moscow?”

Vaguely. The news had come on the train, two days late and doubtless contorted from numerous tellings. “You beat them back?” Sasha asked.

Another nod. “Not me, no, but the Red Army. Yeah. It was a long, bloody battle, but the Germans had to retreat. And now the papers are all full of headlines about how the Nazis are on the run.”

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