Page 138 of Deadly Knight
Dimitri tugs me back as the fire catches and spreads, sticking to the gas line. It moves across the grass and zips for the building, the fire growing when it reaches the doorway, which is where Dimitri dumped most of the fuel.
It continues down the building’s side and inside, spreading further, taking with it the mattress that was the platform for my ruination.
Dimitri tugs me back until we’re leaning against the hood of his car. He holds me close, but remains silent. There isn’t anythingtosay because the flames are telling a rough enough story.
The memories will always be present. Shy of amnesia, nothing will take them away. They’ve been a shadow on my past, a hint about my future, and a factor on my present. They’re in my nightmares and daydreams. In my interactions with others. In my head.
It doesn’t mean they’ll win.
The fire burns for a while,slowly breaking the brick down and filling the sky with grey smoke.
Dimitri sighs in frustration. “I’ll send men with a bulldozer to remove the rest.”
“Don’t. The flames have done their job; the building has been altered, like we were. We’re not the same teenagers who were tied up inside. We were changed. This place is representative of that. So however it looks when the flames die out is what it’ll be forever left as until the next big thing comes along to fix it. Like us.”
I reach for him—my next big thing.
He drops a kiss onto my forehead, inhaling deeply. His rumble vibrates through my chest, taking hold of my heart. “Whatever you decide,moya dusha. Did you wish to stay until the end?”
The fire no longer holds the same interest it did an hour ago.
“I’m ready to leave, if you are. I’ve seen enough and am ready to go home.”
Dimitri grasps my hand and stands, laying a searing kiss on my lips before climbing into the vehicle.
We drive away, leaving the past where it should have always been.
In the past.
When Katya mentioned home,she meant the mansion, but that isn’t where we go.
The closer we get, the more my insides knot. Today feels different from bringing her here after a decade, or anything else that’s happened over the past two months. There’s a twisting sensation I attempt to taper down.
We haven’t spoken since leaving the burning building, and I’m thankful for the reprieve. To get lost in my thoughts—doubts forming.
What if she doesn’t like it?
She watches me as I turn into her old neighbourhood, silent even when pulling into the small driveway.
“What are we doing here?”
Wordlessly—not from choice but because I’m positive words won’t be happening—I retrieve her from the passenger seat and hand her one of two house keys before leading her to the front door. Words caught somewhere in my throat, I gesture for her to unlock it. Above the lock, the fingerprint reader waits to be coded to our fingers.
She hesitates only a second before pushing the key into the lock and twisting the handle.
“Home,” I manage.
Katya takes in the updates and furnishings. Where her couch used to be is now a padded, leather sofa, overlooking a large flatscreen. Side tables matching the mahogany coffee table fence them, all on top of a burgundy rug, making the room warmer and ‘homey’. At least, that’s what the interior designer claimed.
Professional photos of Toronto’s skyline hang on one wall, a tribute to where Katya called home for a while. She may deny missing it, but I know a part of her does and always will.
Beneath the Toronto skyline is a side table of frames; pictures I’ve handpicked for the designer. Some of us as teenagers, in school, lounging on the front lawn. Ones of her as a kid, thanks to her parents’ help, who’ll be visiting in a couple weeks—unknown to Katya. Photos of her parents, so she can always see them.
It was with a pang, I realized the only recent photos I have of Katya are ones taken from afar; something to rectify.
She examines them while slowly passing and heads into the kitchen with its refreshed coat of light blue paint and updated appliances. The cupboards and drawers are filled with all new dishes, ready for evenings where we cook supper together, and breakfasts after late sleep-ins.
“Dimitri,” she breathes, continuing to the other side of the kitchen and eventually reaches the stairs, where I reach by to flick on the light, the fixture overhead also a new addition. It’s a bit more opulent than expected, but it’ll be up to Katya to keep or change it.
