Page 125 of Nothing More

“You didn’t speak,” Misha said, voice nearly fond. “And you stared, like a hungry wolf. Andrei swore you were possessed by the devil.”

“How kind,” Toly grumbled, but was pleased, deep down.Good. He should be afraid of me.

“Don’t worry about them. They make lots of noise, but I have them in-hand.”

Toly snorted.

Misha sighed. “I’m not Andrei. They may snap their teeth and puff out their chests, but they know to listen to me.”

Toly had his reservations – tons of them, weighing heavy across his shoulders, spiking his blood pressure – but no choice but to trust Misha in this.

They turned right at the next light, and then Misha eased them into a hash-marked emergency lane. “Here we are. This is the address.”

Toly craned his neck to peer up at it. A slick, ugly concrete and glass tower, modern and charmless, its upper windows glowing; the revolving door out front that led into a sleek, black marble lobby, visible through the clear glass.

“We don’t have a name,” he pointed out. “So we can’t ask after our man. Or pretend to have a delivery for him.”

“I know,” Misha agreed. “We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way, then.” Amidst a flurry of honks from angry drivers, he backed into a spot along the curb and put the car in park. “Check there.” He pointed to the glove compartment.

When Toly opened it, a flask and a bag of beef jerky fell out into his lap. “Snacks?”

“There’s vodka in the flask.”

Just like old times, Toly thought, but managed not to say.

Twenty-Five

Raven woke alone, which was usual.

What wasn’t usual was the cold lump of disappointment in her stomach.

She’d hoped that since they were no longer a secret, and were both stuck in this safehouse flat besides, that Toly would stop feeling the need to sneak around. But here she sat, hand pressed to the cold impression in the sheets beside her, very much alone.

The bathroom was likewise cold, and dry, proving he hadn’t slipped in for a shower at any point. She showered herself, dressed, and did her makeup as though she was destined for the office – wallowing would help nothing and no one.

When she left the bedroom, she was struck full-force by the scent of breakfast – a breakfast of the sort she couldn’t afford to make a habit of eating. Bacon, potatoes, a hint of something sweet. Since it was early, and she was staying out of school, there was no sign of Cassandra. Bennet and Shep were parked on the sofa, however, watchingSeinfeldreruns.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” Bennet said, offering a wave over his shoulder, eyes staying glued to the TV. “Your boy’s making breakfast.”

“He’s hardly my boy,” she felt the need to grumble, as she passed.

Shep chuckled and called after her: “How does boytoywork for ya?”

In the kitchen, Toly stood where he had last night, steaming skillet, wooden spoon and all. He wore different clothes, though the black shirt, ripped jeans, and boots were an iteration of the same. She doubted he owned anything else.

Déjà vu struck, as he lifted his head, hair sliding from behind his ear, sunlight – wan and yellow with dawn, this time – limning his lashes and sharp nose. The bunch and flex of his biceps inside the tight sleeves of his shirt. A sort of lovely she’d never thought to search for, in her life of high fashion and prim manners, but one she kept encountering, again and again, in a kitchen of all places.

Her disappointment melted away. Most of it. “Hi.” Like last night, she slid onto the stool across from him.

“Hi.”

It hit her like a flashbang, the sudden understanding that if they continued, if they dated – ifdatingwas something you could call sleeping consistently with a Lean Dog – that even if things grew as comfortable as a well-loved pair of slippers, he was never going to be verbose. No booming “good morning, darling, I dreamt of you all night.” No “honey, I’m home” called across the house. Grabbing her and whirling her around, lifting her off her feet until she had no choice but to squeal in delight. She wasn’t a silly person, and he wasn’t going to turn her into one through bombast and grand gestures. It would be an exchange of quiet “hi”s over breakfast. Dark, loaded looks, and elbows bumping at the counter. Stolen, heated kisses when no one else was looking.

She could live with that. She could more than live with that, even if she’d always expected to be the more demure party in a relationship.

“How was your smoke?” she asked.

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