Page 177 of Enemy Within
Sergey swallowed. Damn it, Sasha hated these things. He hated big public gatherings, giant events. He’d be miserable tonight.
Why had he come?
“You look good as well,” Sasha said softly, his deep voice rumbling. His eyes flicked back to Sergey, down his body, and then away again. He cleared his throat, a flush rising on his cheekbones.
Sergey blinked. “Have you… found your seat yet?” A dozen tables were scattered around the edges of the ballroom in front of a podium where he’d deliver his remarks later and pass out the Gold Star medals. He’d have to lay the medal around Sasha’s neck andnotkiss him in front of all of Russia.
“No.”
“Let me show you.” He gestured for Sasha to go first, and then guided him across the ballroom. The Kremlin was still in disarray, and they’d moved the reception to the Moscow Ritz-Carlton. All the heroes, and Sergey, were staying there tonight.
Sasha’s table was at the very front, where the heroes earning the highest honors, the Hero of Russia award, were seated. Anton, Aleksey, Vasily, Ilya, and Sasha. And Sergey, as president.
He’d put Sasha on the opposite side of the table from him, but someone had moved his place setting. It was right beside Sergey’s. He coughed. “Sorry, this was supposed to be over there.” He switched Sasha and Vasily, quickly.
Sasha said nothing. He stared over the crowd, his jaw clenched.
“I will see you during dinner.” Nodding, Sergey strode away, cursing with every footstep. Damn him and his foolish heart. Damn him for falling for Sasha. Damn him for still, even now, hoping for a miracle.
WHEN DINNER BEGAN, SASHA sat right beside Sergey, his nametag back where it had been before.
He wanted to crawl out of his skin, and his fork trembled when he held it, steak balanced precariously on the end. He barely ate, his eyes sliding sideways every other second, watching Sasha’s stiff back, his strong arms encased in his dark tux. The way he sliced his food, speared his steak. The clench of his jaw as he chewed. The wine glass he left untouched.
Sergey downed his glass of wine faster than he should have and asked for another. Ilya sent him a sharp look across the table, blowing cigarette smoke harshly in-between glaring at Sasha.
And then, it was time to speak.
He’d practiced his speech for a week, extolling the sacrifices and heroism of the men and women he was honoring that night. He told a story about each, something that allowed their acts to shine. When he got to Sasha’s, his voice caught, cracking as he described Sasha’s one-way overflight of Madigan’s position and the intelligence that had formed the backbone of the plan to save their nation, and the world.
The crowd rose in a standing ovation when he finished speaking.
Sasha looked like he wanted to disappear, crawl under the table and quietly die.
The medal ceremony was stilted, but he shook each hero’s hand, thanked them profusely, and draped the Gold Star medal around their neck. When Sasha stood before him, he averted his gaze, staring at Sasha’s shoulder instead of his eyes. “Zvezda moya,” he breathed, gripping Sasha’s arms. “Now the world knows what I always have: you are a true hero.”
He heard Sasha’s quiet exhale, saw his eyes slide closed.
And then, he moved on, past Sasha, grasping Anton’s hand and smiling wide, presenting him his medal. And then Aleksey, and on and on, until he could pretend he had forgotten all about Sasha Andreyev.
LATER, HE’D BLAME THE WINE.
Sergey didn’t drink wine to excess. A glass with dinner, maybe one after. He preferred whiskey when given the choice. Something to restart the heart, a firebrand to the soul. Wine was too insidious. It sneaked up on him. He was past the point of good sense before he saw the first warning sign.
Waiters had brought out the dessert, trays ofptichye molokocake cut into delicate star-shaped slices. Whipped marshmallow quivered on top of a thin slice of spiced cake and beneath a coating of drizzled chocolate. More wine flowed, and Sergey found his glass refilled.
Dancing had started, a mix of Russian pop hits belting from a DJ and a live band dipping into classical Russian anthems. He watched everyone spin on the dance floor and took turns dancing with beautiful Russian women, flirting gently with each of them. They left lip-gloss kisses on his cheeks and batted their eyelashes at him, but when the dances ended, he bowed politely and escorted each lady back to her friends.
The night thrummed, humming through him, filling him with wild energy. Anything could happen on a night like this. Potential hung in the air, so close he could snatch it.
He went back to his table. Two men hadn’t danced once all evening: Ilya, who never danced, and Sasha, who would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, by the look on his face. Sour disgust, and sullen dejection, turned his beautiful features ugly as he played with his napkin. Hisptichye molokocake sat uneaten, the delicate marshmallow melting and sliding sideways on the plate.
Ilya arched his eyebrows and lit a fresh cigarette as he approached. Sergey pulled Ilya’s cigarette from his lips with shaking hands and took a deep drag, blowing it out slowly.
His gaze fixed on Sasha, slumped in his seat. His Gold Star Hero’s medal lay on the table, carefully folded and set off to the side of his coffee.
He collapsed into the seat beside Sasha. His legs bounced, nervous, frantic energy racing through him. Hope buoyed him, made him light, as light as the marshmallow cake. Sasha had come to the ball. That had to mean something. Maybe, maybe there was hope. Maybe.
He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees as he flicked ash on his empty dessert plate. “What if,” he said carefully, “I were to ask you to dance with me? Hmm? What would you say?”
