Page 91 of White Wolf

She laid her hand in his and immediately his fingers closed around hers and he stepped out into a clear space between the tree trunks, whirling her along. She let out a startled gasp, afraid she’d fall, but he swung her into place in front of him, other hand landing, steadying, on her hip.

And they were dancing, just like that.

“Oh,” she said, after a moment, following his feather-light steps across the ground as best she could. Because he knew the steps, yes, and executed them well, but he obviously wasn’t trained as a ballroom dancer. His movements were more ethereal than that.

“Ballet, yes,” he said, as if reading her mind, smile wry…and also proud. “Until I was eighteen.”

“You waltz very well,” she said, a little breathless with the speed and smoothness of his turns, trying valiantly to keep up.

“So do you.”

She made a dismissive sound.

“I never lie about dancing,” he said, seriously.

And for the first time in a long time, a real, bright, from-the-heart smile broke across her face, almost painful because the muscles there were so unused to the expression.

He smiled back, and suddenly he was handsome, and not frightening at all. What a life he might have had, if not for the war, if not for their damnable government.

What a life theyallmight have had.

He spun her out one last time with a flourish, reeled her in, and dipped her. Her stomach gave a little flip and she grabbed tight to his arm for balance, but she was proud that she didn’t trip or make too big a fool of herself.

He righted her carefully, made sure she was steady, and then stepped back. His smile began to fade immediately, but there were lingering traces of warmth in his face, eyes sparkling.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly, and she knew he meant it.

She curtsied, fingers pinched at the edges of an imaginary skirt.

“Thankyou, sir.”

She heard a sound off to the right, a quiet rustling.

Kolya glanced that way and said, “Ah. I think you’ll be alright to walk back.” He bowed and turned away.

Her confusion lasted only a moment before a white-faced, black-clad figure stepped out from behind a tree and approached her.

Nikita.

Her cheeks were already warm from dancing, but she felt them grow warmer. She reached to tuck her hair back, errant strands that had escaped her braids. Her heart started to knock in a way that it hadn’t when she was dancing with Kolya. It had been exercise, before, but now her pulse pounded for another reason entirely, one she wasn’t sure she liked.

He wasn’t smiling, but his expression was soft. He drew to a halt in front of her and together they listened to Kolya walked back to the fire, and then Ivan’s loud greeting as he rejoined the others.

“Sometimes,” Nikita said, low, “when he thinks no one else is around at the office, he takes off his boots and goes through his old positions.” He finally smiled. “I haven’t seen him do it in a while.”

“Oh,” she said, nervous suddenly, feeling, for some reason, like he was complimenting her. She would have blushed if she wasn’t doing that already.

“Thank you for being kind to him.”

“Why would you thank me for that?”

His smile twisted, grew sad. “We aren’t the sort of men who inspire kindness in those around us. We don’t receive it often.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell himof course you don’t. Every Russian knew what the long black coats and black fur hats with the hammer and sickle represented, and not even the most loyal to the Communist Party held an ounce of love for the Cheka.

But she’d softened toward them at this point, seeing them as men first, and Chekists second. Dangerous. But unavoidable.

“You don’t like what you do,” she said, and it wasn’t a guess so much as something she’d come to know.

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