Page 10 of The Pakhan's Bride
Dimitri shakes his head like he's already regretting letting me out of his sight. But he steps aside. "Brush your teeth. You smell like alcohol and recklessness."
I almost laugh. "Which part bothers you more?"
"That you don't smell sorry."
I pad into the bathroom, the soft smile lingering on my lips. When I return, he's already moved to the door. "Sleep," he says, nothing more.
"I will."
He steps out into the hall, shuts the door behind him. I stand in the stillness, the wine still warm in my veins, before my feet carry me to the bed. The sheets are cool and clean. The pillow smells faintly of lavender and unfamiliar detergent. I lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of Paris until my eyes close. I dream with the windows open.
Morning arrives with pale gold light filtering through the curtains of my hotel room. I've slept three hours, spent the rest analyzing my conversation with Markov, cataloging his mannerisms, trying to identify what game he's playing. He never asked for my number, yet I know we'll meet again today.
Some certainties are worth having.
I dress in simple clothes—jeans, a soft sweater, flat shoes that could carry me into a run if needed. I tuck my hair back and apply minimal makeup before stepping onto the street. Dimitri is keeping his distance, as promised, but I know he'll be watching.
The walk takes me past a few cafes, and two streets down, I find my stranger from the bar leaning against a weathered wall, as if conjured from my thoughts.
"You found me," I say, unsurprised.
"You weren't hiding." His eyes, clear in morning light, catch something I missed in the bar's dimness—flecks of amber amid the blue, like ice held to flame. He doesn't explain how he knew where I was staying, but he had to have known, given that he's not too far from the hotel. I don't ask. Some questions change the temperature between people, and I prefer this careful warmth to cold suspicion.
We walk together through streets awakening to commerce and conversation. Shopkeepers raise metal gates. Café workers arrange chairs on sidewalks. He guides me with slight pressure at my elbow, a gesture that should feel presumptuous but instead feels like muscle memory, as if we've walked these paths before.
Our path takes us to a bursting flower market filled with color and scent under a glass-roofed pavilion. Buckets overflow with blooms, peonies heavy with morning dew, irises rigid with pride, roses still furled against the day. He touches nothing, but his eyes linger on certain stalls, certain colors.
"What are you thinking?" I ask, breaking our comfortable silence.
"That flowers are strange currency," he says. "They die so quickly, yet we keep buying them."
"Maybe that's the point. Beauty isn't meant to last."
He turns to me, his expression unreadable. "Is that what you believe?"
I don't answer. Sofia might, with some sweet philosophy about transience and joy. But I'm slipping, finding it harder to maintain her voice, her thoughts. This man sees too much.
He buys a single white camellia from an old woman with soil-stained hands. She wraps the stem in damp paper, smiling at him with the universal expression of someone who believes she's witnessing romance. He doesn't correct her assumption. Neither do I. "For you," he says, offering the bloom. "No roses. Too obvious."
Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel a jolt—static from the dry air, I convince myself, and nothing more.
What am I doing here?This wasn't part of my plan. Two precious days of freedom spent with a stranger who sees through my disguise, who could be anyone, CIA, private security, a hired gun with orders regarding the Baranovs. The risk calculationdoesn't balance. And yet I keep walking beside him, keep accepting his small offerings, keep pretending this is just a holiday diversion.
We find a street vendor sellingpain au chocolatstill warm from the oven. He buys two, hands me one wrapped in thin paper. The pastry flakes between my fingers, chocolate melting against my tongue. A small pleasure, magnified by freedom and the way his eyes linger on my mouth. "You have…" He gestures to the corner of my mouth.
I brush away the crumb, slower than necessary. His gaze follows the movement with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
"Tell me something true," I say.
"Truth is subjective." He takes a bite of his own pastry, chews slowly before continuing. "I like this part of Paris best, away from the monuments. I prefer dogs to cats. I don't trust people who drink Scotch with ice."
Nothing personal. Nothing revealing. I recognize the technique because I employ it myself—give harmless facts to satisfy curiosity without exposing vulnerability.
"Your turn," he says.
"I speak seven languages fluently. I love flowers. I've never been on a Ferris wheel."
His lips quirk. "We could fix that last one."
