Page 9 of The Pakhan's Bride
"I won't." Something shifts in his expression. "Names are overrated. Actions matter more."
"And what action should I take now? Since you've so thoroughly dismantled my evening plans."
His laugh is unexpected—short, genuine, a break in his careful control. It transforms his face, revealing a glimpse of someone surprisingly youthful beneath the watchful stranger. "Finish your wine. Walk with me. The night's still young, and Paris deserves better than to be experienced from inside a bar."
Caution wars with curiosity in my chest. Seven days of freedom shouldn't include taking chances on unknown variables. And yet… "I have conditions," I say, reverting to Russian with its hard edges. "No questions about my past. No photographs. No exchange of contact information when we part ways."
He nods once. "Agreed." A minute later, a lopsided grin appears on his face. "What would you like me to call you?"
I consider the question for a heartbeat. "Sofia," I settle on. "And you?"
"Markov," he replies easily, his voice dark and soft.
We finish the bottle in contemplative silence. He pays in cash, leaving generous gratuity, and leads me out with his hand on the small of my back. By now, Paris has transformed into a watercolor of amber lights and blue shadows. Lanterns glowin shop windows along narrow streets, winding through the city. My heels click against cobblestones as we walk, the sound syncopating with his steadier footfalls. I keep space between us, but not enough to suggest fear. Sofia would walk closer, maybe brush her arm against his occasionally. I am not Sofia, but neither am I entirely Zoya here. I exist in the liminal space between identities, between truths.
"You're very good," he says eventually. "Most people would never notice that you're constantly checking your reflection in shop windows to adjust your appearance. That you never fully relax, even when you laugh."
I intentionally touch my hair, teasing. "Perhaps I'm vain."
"Perhaps you're a ghost." He stops, turns to face me fully under a wrought-iron lamp that casts his features in sharp relief. The intensity returns to his gaze. "You don't belong here."
The words are an observation delivered with the certainty of someone who recognizes his own kind. Someone who himself doesn't belong anywhere. I look up at him, at the nighttime city reflected in his eyes. For one reckless moment, I let my mask slip, not to show him who I am but to show him that the mask exists at all. "That's the point," I answer.
An hour passes easily, and before I know it, after he says goodbye, I'm returning to the hotel well past curfew. The lobby is mostly dark, lit only by a single table lamp near the reception desk, casting long, tired shadows across the tiled floor. The night clerk glances up from his crossword, offers no greeting, no judgment. He's seen worse from strangers with less to lose. I remove my shoes just outside the door to my room. The soles of my feet ache with a kind of good pain, the kind that comes from walking too long. My fingers are cold, my movements quiet. I ease the door open, prepared to slip into the dark like a thief returning from some trivial crime.
The light is already on. Dimitri sits in the armchair by the window, one ankle resting on his knee, arms crossed over his chest. The book on his lap is closed. He is not reading. He has been waiting. I pause just inside the doorway, uncertain whether to speak first or simply face the inevitable.
"You're late." His voice is quiet, alert, edged with disappointment he doesn't bother to hide.
I shut the door behind me. "I know."
"You had four hours."
"I lost track of time."
Dimitri leans forward, setting the book aside. The lines in his face are deeper tonight, and for once, he doesn't seem like a soldier in a tailored coat. "I watched the clock, Zoya," he admonishes. "Every minute past twelve, I thought of how I'd explain it to your father if something happened. How I'd explain it to myself."
I move slowly across the room, shrugging off my coat and draping it over the back of the desk chair. "Nothing happened."
"Yet."
He stands, not quite angry, not quite calm. His height is always impressive, but he doesn't use it against me. "I wasn't careless," I tell him. "I was just… somewhere I wanted to be. Somewhere I needed to be, even if only for an hour. Isn't that the point of this trip,Dyadya? If I'm on curfew and being watched all the time while I'm here, I may as well be back at home. And you can call me ungrateful." I pause to swallow the lump forming in my throat. "But I sure as hell won't leave Paris feeling like I didn't do everything here that I wanted to."
Dimitri sighs, rubs a hand over his face. "I gave you space because you appealed to the father in me. But Zoya… I am still responsible for you."
"I know," I say. "And I'm grateful. Truly." But I refuse to back down. "How many times have you seen me do somethingcareless? And before you remind me of that incident, let me remind you that I stabbed that asshole in Barcelona to protect myself."
Dimitri has gone quiet, so I push on. "I know how to take care of myself in the dark and the light,Dyadya. All those years of judo and target practice weren't for show. You trained me yourself. You know exactly what I'm capable of.”
That earns a small smile from him, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. He's softening, but he's still angry. I can take that. I walk to the window where the curtain is half-drawn. The streetlights blur against the glass like melted stars. Far below, a couple laughs too loudly on the sidewalk. They hold hands like it means nothing at all.
"When I was younger, you used to sneak me out of family parties for fresh air," I murmur. "Do you remember? You'd say my father never saw the use in letting me breathe, although he did it to protect me. But you did."
Dimitri says nothing. "This week isn't about rebellion," I continue. "It's not about lying or running or shirking what I owe the Baranovs. I know what's waiting for me when I go home. I know the duty, the name, the blood." I turn to face him. "But I only asked for seven days. In this impossibly long life of always belonging to someone else, just seven days where I'm my own person."
His gaze meets mine. "You're still my problem," he says gruffly.
"Always," I answer. "But I'm here, and I'll be okay. I just need you to trust me."
