Page 11 of The Pakhan's Bride
"Not today." I glance at my watch—a habit when deflecting, one I should break. "What brings you to Paris?"
"Work." He discards his empty pastry wrapper in a nearby bin. "And you?"
"Escape."
The word slips out before I can catch it. His eyes sharpen with interest, but he doesn't press. Instead, we drift toward a café with wicker chairs spilling onto the sidewalk. We order espresso in tiny cups that we cradle in our palms. We watchParisians pass—students with heavy bags, businessmen with synchronized strides, young mothers with strollers. He doesn't move to end the day, although he says he's here for work. And I have no wish to be alone when I could explore the city with him, although this realization, as it forms, terrifies me.
Dimitri sends me a few messages as the day progresses. I'm careful enough to reply to each one, to let him know I'm safe.
We spend the next couple of hours like this, moving through the city, speaking in half-truths, existing in the space between strangers and something else. He keeps his history close, deflecting my careful probes with slight subject changes, with counter-questions, with that tapping of his finger against whatever he's holding. I recognize myself in his guardedness.Wonder what he's hiding, who he's hiding from.
Evening approaches with a chill that turns breath visible. I've been checking my surroundings all day. No indication that I've been followed. The man notices my vigilance but doesn't comment. His silence is another point of connection between us, the understanding that looking over one's shoulder is as natural as breathing.
We find ourselves in a narrow alley as dusk settles over the city. Ancient buildings lean toward each other overhead, framing a rectangle of darkening sky. A jazz trio plays in a nearby square, their music flowing around corners, bouncing off stone walls—saxophone and bass and drums having a conversation we're privileged to overhear. "Dance with me," he says suddenly.
I hesitate. "Here?"
"Why not?" His hand extends between us, an invitation rather than a demand. "No audience. No expectations."
It'd beverywise to refuse. Dancing requires proximity, physical contact, all of which are dangerous allowances for a woman like me. But the music tugs at something I've kept lockedaway, something that wants to move, to feel, to forget calculation for just one moment.
Before I can second-guess myself, I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm, certain, callused in places that speak of weapons training rather than manual labor. He pulls me closer, his other hand firm at my waist. A low heat rises in my stomach, and I shiver at his touch. If he notices, he's gentleman enough to not point it out.
We move together, finding rhythm in the spill of music. His steps are fluid. Mine match his as if we've rehearsed. Our bodies seem to remember dances from other countries, other contexts. "Who taught you to dance?" he asks, his voice low near my ear.
"My father insisted." The truth slips out again. I course-correct. "He believed in a traditional education."
His hand shifts slightly at my waist, the smallest pressure guiding me through a turn. "Mine too, though our definitions of 'education' might differ."
I'm falling a little. I recognize the sensation, the lightness in my chest, the slight dizziness that has nothing to do with the spinning. This isn't ideal, and if anything, Markov is just another lie among many. A performance for a purpose. Except I have no purpose here except freedom. No game except the one I'm playing with myself. And perhaps, if I let myself have this—him—then this could be the full Paris experience. After this, we'd return to the normal rise and fall of our lives and speak no more of the week that once was.
The cobblestones beneath our feet are still damp from afternoon rain, releasing the scents of dust and stone and age. Distant laughter drifts from the square, the sound of people enjoying an ordinary evening. His palm is warm against the small of my back, his chest solid when a misstep brings me against it. For a moment, just a moment, I let myself lean in. The music ends. We don't immediately separate. His eyes searchmine for something I'm not sure I possess. I look back, searching too, wondering what mask he wears, what face lies beneath.
When I return to the hotel post this dance, something in me has changed completely. If Dimitri notices, he says nothing and takes me out to dinner. We talk about other things—the weather, Papa's childhood in Prague, cats, and how pistachio and Maldon salt elevate chocolate ice-cream. I know how charitable this is for a man who could be destroyed by my father if he found out what I'm doing here.
And I'm grateful.
The Seineat night is a ribbon of black silk embroidered with gold—reflections of streetlamps, boat lights, the illuminated monuments that define Paris for those who've never truly seen it. Markov and I walk along its edge after dinner at a small restaurant where he spoke to the owner in flawless French and I pretended not to notice how the staff tensed when he entered. Three nights with this man, and I know both everything and nothing about him. I know how he takes his coffee (black, no sugar), which shoulder he favors (the right, an old injury he doesn't mention), how his eyes change color depending on his mood (darker when he's assessing, lighter when he almost laughs). I know he's dangerous in the same way I am. What I don't know is why I'm still here, still walking beside him, still playing this game that feels less like strategy and more like falling with each passing hour.
Our shoulders brush occasionally, not accidental on either part. Each contact sends a current through my skin The night wind carries the scents of river water, stone, and the faint sweetness of his cologne. "You're quiet tonight," he says.
"I'm always quiet." I look out across the water rather than at him. Safer that way. "You just talk enough for both of us."
He laughs, and a delicious shiver runs through my core. "Is that what you think? That I talk too much?"
"I think you say exactly enough to seem forthcoming while revealing nothing."
"Like recognizes like," he murmurs.
We pass a couple leaning against the stone balustrade, lost in each other, oblivious to the world continuing around them. I envy their oblivion, their certainty. I've never been certain of anything except my name, and even that feels tenuous now after days of being Sofia.
Four days left of freedom. Four days before I return to Moscow, to duty, to the life laid out for me before I was born. The thought sits like ice in my chest, spreading coldness through my limbs. His hand catches mine suddenly, pulling me sideways into a recessed doorway set into the ancient stone wall lining the riverbank. The alcove is deep, shadowed, the kind of architectural detail that exists only in cities that have survived centuries. His body blocks the entrance, not trapping me but creating a pocket of privacy in the public space.
"What—" I begin, but the word dies when I see his expression. Gone is the careful amusement, the carefully arranged charm. The replacing intensity is enough to take my breath away. "I won't ask your name," he says, voice deep. "I promised that. But I want to know the truth."
"About what?" My pulse accelerates, not from fear but from something more complicated.
"About why you're hiding." His fingers still hold mine, his thumb tracing unconscious circles against my skin. "About who you're running from."
