Page 87 of City Of Thieves
But he makes perfect sense, too.
“Okay.” I nod, swiping the rain out of my eyes and blinking up at him
“Okay,” he yells, sealing the deal with a glorious smile. His first for me, with his black hair streaming into his dark eyes and his golden skin glistening. Looking so fierce and determined I can’t help kissing him again, forgetting everything in this moment. Because thereisonly this moment. Whatever the weather sends our way.
The storm is finally starting to pass as he carries me back inside and walks us straight to the en suite. Peeling off my negligée and his wet T-shirt and jeans, he switches on the shower and insists on washing every part of me.
I groan in appreciation when I feel his fingers massaging shampoo into my hair.
“Good?”
“The best.”
“Now rinse.”
Obediently, I do as he says, closing my eyes in ecstasy as he repeats his actions with the conditioner. After he’s done, he switches the faucet off and wraps me up in a clean towel.
“Bed.”
For once, I’m not fighting him. Exhaustion is finally setting in.
Crawling in between the sheets, I quickly roll onto my side as he slides in next to me. He presses his still-damp body to mine, anchoring me to a place I never want to leave, as we listen to the residue of the storm, all the while knowing that there’s another one on our horizon.
It’s a waiting game now.
Waiting for Konstantin’s message.
Waiting to wrap my arms around the missing piece of me.
Waiting for his vengeance.
“Now we talk,” I hear him murmur, but by then I’m already drifting off to sleep.
* * *
I wake before dawn,right before the big color explosion, when the reds and golds are still muted tones.
Lifting my head from the pillow, I find him sitting in the chair next to my bed wearing his black jeans, with his feet up on the edge of the mattress, and a bottle of my whiskey resting on the floor next to him.
He’s reading the letter my mother gave to me last night.
The one that solves all the riddles.
I lie there, watching him dissect my grandfather’s words, absorbing his half-frown as he flicks through the three pages detailing the black truth about Konstantin’s hatred for my family.
Once finished, he returns to the first page for a repeat, picking up the whiskey bottle as he does and taking a swig.
“Who knew the price of my misery was a dollar sign.”
He looks up at the sound of my voice, our eyes meeting over the top of the crumpled paper, and he slowly returns the bottle to the floor.
“The price of your misery is a bullet to the head of the man who caused it,” he says, his deep voice rough from lack of sleep.
“A dollar signandten paintings,” I clarify, tucking my knees up to my chest. “Turns out, the one thing I clung to for comfort for five years was the root cause of everything.”
“Here’s where we differ,dolcezza.” He rises to his feet and stares down at me for a moment. “To an outsider like me, art isn’t something to fucking lose yourself in. It’s where you go to find what you’re looking for.”
“When did you get so philosophical?”
