Page 32 of Pretty Little Princess

I must be hitting on all the wrong questions because the open easiness and charm that he’s demonstrated all morning seems to be ebbing away. Still, I sense that his father is at the root of a lot of what makes Pyotr tick. I wonder if he ever talks to anyone about him.

Tentatively, I try to turn the subject into a lighter area. “What was your father like?”

Pyotr’s eyes soften, but he finishes his sandwich before answering my question. “Smart. Charming. Funny. He could make my mother laugh–something I don’t think she’s genuinely done since the day he died. He had this… presence about him. He wasn’t the largest man–tall and fit, to be sure–but the way he carried himself just commanded respect. Made him… larger than life, you know?”

Without thinking, I reach out and grasp Pyotr’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. His eyes drop to my hand, and a sad smile touches his face. His fingers close around mine, warm and rough and strong. It makes my heart flutter.

Then he gives them a responding squeeze before he withdraws. “Shall we walk and talk?” he suggests, gesturing to the well-maintained park path.

“Sure.” I take the last bite of my sandwich and crinkle up its wrapping before tossing it in the trash. Wiping my face with a napkin for good measure, I then join Pyotr.

His guards fall into step behind us as my betrothed offers me the crook of his elbow, and I rest my hand gently on his arm.

“It must be hard trying to follow in your father’s footsteps without his guidance. He sounds like an incredible man,” I say gently, daring myself to further the conversation, though I can tell it’s dangerous ground.

Pyotr studies me from the corner of his eye as if trying to understand my motive. Like I might be gathering intel rather than genuinely trying to get to know him. What a strange, difficult minefield we’ve been tasked with maneuvering through. Make peace by marrying your family’s enemy.

OnlyI’mnot his enemy. I don’t like what his mother did to Cass’s fiancée, and Ihatethat she scarred my brother’s face. But none of that was Pyotr, and I don’t intend on making our relationship more challenging than it already is by holding it against him.

What Icouldhold against him–the way he’s treated me at school these past few months–I’m trying desperately not to think of today.

“It’s a heavy mantle to wear,” he confesses. “But it’s also an honor to be the son of Aleksandr Veles. He was a great man.”

“Was he a good father?” The question slips out before I have time to consider where it came from or whether it’s a wise one. But I’m suddenly burning to know.

My own father is far from good. He doesn’t care about me. He’s never taken the time to get to know me. He’s made a point of informing my brothers and me in no uncertain terms that I was forced upon my mother as a punishment. He already had three sons–he didn’t need another child. But she couldn’t try to leave him with a baby in her belly and no money to get by.

The only otherpakhanI know is Bianka’s brother Ilya. He terrifies me, but Bianka says he’s kind to her, a good man–whatever that could possibly mean in our world. Then I think of Nico and immediately regret my cynical thought. My brotherisa good man. No matter what he does.

Realizing I got lost in my own thoughts, I glance over at Pyotr to find him watching me. An unnerving understanding lingers behind his eyes.

“He was a wonderful father, actually,” he says softly. “Loving. Patient. Better than I deserved.”

That shatters my heart. For so many reasons, it kills me to know that Aleksandr Veles was a loving father. That Pyotr had to suffer such a loss at a young age. That the Matron has had to fight to protect her husband’s legacy. That a man like that could be taken so easily from the world while a man like my father lingers. It’s so unjust.

“Tell me, Silvia, what do you enjoy?” Pyotr asks briskly, pointedly changing the subject.

“Well, I’ve loved every minute of today,” I confess, thinking back on our jam-packed morning and all the incredible sights we’ve seen.

“That’s not what I asked you,” he presses. “What do you like doing with your time?”

“Oh, um. Well, art, mostly. I mean, I like to read, but drawing is something I can just lose myself in.” I’ve done a lot of charcoal drawings this semester, many to help me work through all the emotional challenges I’ve faced. But I intentionally keep that to myself since he’s been the leading cause of my turmoil.

Pyotr smiles mischievously, whatever idea he’s just had lighting up his eyes. “Come on then. I know just what our next activity will be.” He snatches my hand, pulling me enthusiastically along the path, back in the direction we came.

Tingles race up my arm from the hand he’s holding. They trickle down my spine in a giddy shiver. I follow Pyotr, almost jogging to keep up with his brisk pace, and I giggle. I’ve never seen him this single-minded about where he was going before.

“Where are you taking me?” I demand as I rush after him.

His guards seem to have no problem keeping up with their imposingly tall figures and long strides. We don’t head back to the car as I’d expected. Instead, we pass the street we came into Central Park on and keep heading north.

A block later, the impressive limestone form of the Metropolitan Museum of Art looms before me. The pillars that stand above the front steps give the imposing building a grand atmosphere, and I stop short as I gape at the beautiful architecture.

I stop so abruptly that my hand slips from Pyotr’s, and he turns to see why I’m not following him.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” he asks, his tone amused.

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” I breathe in with wide-eyed wonder.

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