Page 202 of Golden Eagle

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Kolya made short work of the hearts. When Nikita and the others got back to the roof, they found a bloody pile of them. They dragged the bodies together, after, and the mage boy – Severin – the scent and sight of whom left Nikita choking back a constant growl – supplied the fire necessary to burn the lot of it.

They left behind black, greasy, smoking lumps on the rooftop, and went in search of a secure location where they could try to make sense of all that had happened that morning.

Colette wasnothappy to see them.

Even less happy to see a mage on her rear doorstep.

But Sasha’s smiles and batted lashes wereveryhard to refuse, Nikita knew from long experience.

They were all scattered across her spacious upstairs kitchen/living room area, with its low, plush furniture, and its long plank table, and its colorful accents and fragrant herbs in tiny pots along the windowsill.

Nikita sat at the table, Sasha’s shoulder pressed to his, across from Alexei, and, besidehim, the mage Severin. Colette had made tea, slammed the tray full of cups down on the table, and headed back downstairs to attend her clients, muttering curses all the way.

Nik owed her one hell of a muffin basket after this, but he’d have to worry about that later. Right now, he was staring at an Alexei Romanov who looked greatly changed.

That morning, his voice had been oddly stilted on the phone. “I’m confronting Gustav in two hours, and I’d like for you to be there, if that’s convenient for you.” Formal, and reserved, and stiff. The unusual nature of the request had left Nikita agreeing automatically, mostly out of curiosity.

At the warehouse, he’d settled some, then cool and composed, though still formal. He sat erect now, hands folded together on the table, features schooled – though Nikita could sense fatigue and emotion flickering at his edges, trying to break through. Maybe it had something to do with whatever Gustav had told him, or maybe with the fact that Dante sat on the far side of the room, huddled up miserably in a chair, arms clasped around his raised knees.

Jamie finished pouring everyone tea – set steaming mugs down in front of Nikita and Sasha – and retreated to the sofa. It was silent after, save the patter of light rain against the window; the cloud cover had finally broken.

Someone else would have handled it more adroitly, but Nikita had never had much use for elegance. He met Alexei’s gaze and said, “You’re acting like an adult today.”

Sasha fidgeted on the bench beside him, a silent,Nik, that’s rude.

Alexei said, “I’m acting like what I am.”

A stupid little shit? Nikita wondered. But said, “What’s that?”

“The last tsar of Russia.” It was said with such seriousness, such meaning, that Nikita couldn’t laugh.

He wrapped both hands around the hot mug in front of him. “The last tsar,” he echoed.

Alexei took a deep breath. “It’s what I am.”

“It’s what you would be – if your father hadn’t been formally deposed before his death. The empire is gone, Alexei.” He was almost gentle, when he said it, remembering his own young, stupid, human self, tugging on his black gloves, donning his hat with its hammer and sickle, and telling himself the empire could be rebuilt. Back when he’d thoughtempirewas the best, most beneficial form a government could take. He’d learned better since then…even if the word stirred something deeply buried in his psyche. That word had meant something to him once, and he felt suddenly, irrationally nostalgic for a time he had never loved, and which had never loved him.

“The empire is gone,” Alexei agreed, a muscle leaping in his jaw. “I know I don’t rule over anything – and I don’t want to.”

Nikita lifted his brows, inviting explanation.

“But,” Alexei continued, “I’ve behaved recklessly, for far longer than I should. There have been accidents.” Something like true regret touched his gaze, but was gone in the next blink, replaced by a purposeful kind of determination. He’dchosento be determined, even if he didn’t quite feel that way. “I’ve lived like someone who wasn’t brought up as an heir. I’ve lived like someone–” Here, he faltered, emotion touching his voice, briefly, like a fist closing around his throat and then turning loose in the next breath. “Someone my parents wouldn’t approve of. Someone they wouldn’t be proud of.”

“Alexei,” Trina broke in from the tufted velvet ottoman, where she sat with legs folded, rim of her mug at her bottom lip. “You can’t know that. Don’t torture yourself.”

He closed his eyes in response, but didn’t turn his head to acknowledge her. When he opened them again, they were wet. He blinked and said, “I want to be the man my papa raised me to be.” He bit his lip, hard, and closed his eyes again, wrestling.

Nikita gave him a moment. “What were you talking about with Gustav?” he asked, finally, when it didn’t appear that Alexei was going to resume.

Pale eyes snapped open. Pale cheeks flushed. “Haven’t you been listening?” He bit his lip before Nikita could retort; let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m trying to tell you that I’m going to be better. In all ways. But” – his eyes flared – “I’m not going to play the stupid child that you reprimand and command. I’m more than that. I don’t deserve your abuse,Captain.” He made the title sound like a slur.

Nikita said, “You don’t?” Just to press.

The Alexei he knew would have bristled, maybe even shouted.

The Alexei across from him now made a visible effort to compose himself. “You murdered in the name of Stalin, in the name of waiting to serve my family,” he said, evenly. “I don’t.”

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