Page 103 of Golden Eagle

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Alexei was freaking out.

He’d dreamed of Ekaterinburg. Of the exact black of the sky that final night, of the smear of yellow light from the upper windows. Of the barking voices of the men who’d ushered them across the courtyard. Papa’s arms strong and close around him; the steady pounding of his heart against Alexei’s ear. He’d dreamed of his little spaniel, Joy, jerking and yipping on his lead, because Anastasia hadn’t wanted to leave him behind. The crunch of snow beneath black boots.

He’d dreamed of the Cheka that had killed his family. Their black fur hats, and their long black coats, and the vacant black of their eyes. Monsters, all of them monsters.

And he’d awakened moments ago, to daylight, and his heart in his throat, and to the scent of cooking food, and the echo of Gustav’s words last night.

Your mother’s killers.

It didn’t matter that Nikita hadn’t pulled the trigger himself: he was one of those black-clad monsters. He always had been, and people didn’t change, did they?

He lay, disoriented, pulse pounding, ears ringing, for a long moment, gulping air through an open mouth. Then he became aware of the sound of humming. The sizzle that went with the smell. Someone cooking breakfast – and humming old big band tunes from the forties.

Two hands gripped the back of the velvet sofa where he’d collapsed in the wee hours, and Jamie’s face appeared above his.

“Dante’s making breakfast,” he said. “He’s kind of a weird dude.”

Alexei licked his dry lips. “You don’t say.”

He sat up. Daylight fell in warm panels through the open drapes of Dante’s living room, sparkling off the shiniest of his displayed treasures.

A peek over the back of the couch revealed Dante standing at the stove, his hair soft and loose on his shoulders, wearing his velvet dressing gown, head tipping back and forth as he hummed and turned bacon with a fork.

“He wakes,” he said, all British, and sent Alexei a grin over the kitchen island. A sharp grin, but a worried cast to his gaze.

Alexei rubbed his eyes. “Are you Basil this morning?”

“Mostly. Come over here and eat, the first batch is already done.”

“I’m not hungry,” Alexei grumbled, but he lurched to his feet, stretched out his sore back, and shuffled over to perch at the island, on the stool beside Jamie’s. “The first batch” proved to be bacon, scrambled eggs, and French toast sticks with big puddles of real syrup. He still felt mildly queasy with nerves, but his stomach rumbled, and he fell on the food like a starving man.

“Well,” Dante said, and sipped his coffee.

“Well, what?” Alexei snapped between bites. He became aware that Jamie was staring at him, rather than eating, a more worried version of the calculating look Dante gave him over the rim of his coffee mug. “What?” he demanded again, slowing, looking between them.

Dante set his mug aside slowly. “It seems you have a choice to make.” With his true accent, it sounded like a dire statement; like he himself had presented the choice. Even in his robe, and with his hair wild, there was a gravitas to him. It was easy to imagine him in formalwear, bowing before the queen he’d served.

Jamie said, “You don’t really believe that Gustav guy over Nik, do you?”

There was a blunt way of putting it.

Alexei sighed and set his fork down, stomach cramping. He didn’t want to look at either of them, and stared at a space on the spotless countertop. “Nikita was a Chekist. And Chekists killed my family. Would have killed me if not for Grisha’s gift.”

“Grisha,” Dante said with polite disdain. “Grigory Yefimovich was a lecherous cretin. The entire world thought he was–” He left off when Alexei shot him a glare, his expression smoothing. “Disrespecting your mother and sisters.”

“Lex,” Jamie said beside him, earnest, trying to be convincing. “If Nikita had any bad intentions toward you, you would know by now. We’re pack,” he said, leaning in closer, his eyes huge. He was such a newborn, it very nearly disgusted him. “Whatever Gustav said, he wasn’t–”

“And why would Gustav lie?” Alexei said, sneering, and turned back to his breakfast.

“The same reason any of us lie,” Dante said after a beat, his voice heavy enough that Alexei felt his gaze tugged upward, against his will. Dante looked sad, his lean face drawn. “To fool someone.”

Alexei snorted, and shoveled up another bite of eggs.

“I will say this, though,” Dante added. “In my experience, the best liars are always charming.”

Just like he was.

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