Page 50 of Savage Princess

“Get back in the room, Elena!” he snaps the moment he turns around and sees me standing there. “What the hell do you think you’re doing—”

I scurry back, my hand still over my mouth as Levin strides back into the room and bolts the door behind him. “What part of me telling you to stay out of sight did you not understand?”

“He wasn’t going to do anything. He was so drunk he could barely stand. I wasn’t in any danger—”

“That’s for me to determine,” Levin says tightly. “He won’t be standing now, that’s for fucking sure. If anything had happened to you—”

He’s staring down at me, breathing more heavily than the fight warranted, with such an easy mark. I see his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow, and I feel very small suddenly. I can see how worried he was for me. It wasn’t just jealousy, although I saw that, too.

“If anything had happened to me, what?” I whisper, and Levin lets out a muttered curse, running a hand over his hair as he turns away.

“You should go to bed.” He strides towards the chair on the other side of the room, and I realize with a start that he isn’t planning on sharing the bed with me.

“What about you?” I tilt my head, looking at him. “There’s plenty of room in the bed for us both.”

“Not tonight, there’s not.” Levin’s voice is flat, and I can’t tell if he’s struggling with the decision or not. It hurts to think that he might not be, that he might bethatfrustrated with me. “Just go to bed, Elena.”

“Levin, I—”

“Go to bed.” He turns to look at me, and I can see the frustration etched in every line of his face. “It’s been a long fucking night. I’m going to be up, making sure no one else comes banging on our door. So while it’s quiet, I suggest you get some sleep.”

He slips the gun out of his waistband, propping it on his knee as I’ve seen him do so often as he sinks down into the chair. I realize with a flood of disappointment that there’s not going to be any changing his mind tonight. We’re past that this evening.

“Alright,” I tell him quietly, backing away. “I’m sorry—”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Levin says shortly. “It’s not your fault, Elena. Just–not tonight.”

Another night, I might have tried to tease him out of his mood. I might have tried to convince him to come to bed with me. But I can see the exhaustion written across his face—not just physical exhaustion, but a tiredness that comes from something more. I don’t want to make him fight with himself, not when he looks like that.

So instead, I go to bed, still wearing the black dress as I slip under the covers and tug them up over my shoulder. The bed is big and soft and more comfortable than anything I’ve slept in in weeks, but all I can think of is that I wish Levin were in it with me.

He turns the light out. There’s a faint gleam of moonlight through the curtains, enough for me to see the outline of him sitting there, and I watch him for a long time as he sits there, unmoving.

When I fall asleep, I dream of him next to me. I dream that we’re somewhere else and that he’s whispering in my ear, promising me that he’ll never leave.

In the morning, I wake, and feel tears dried on my cheeks.

Elena

Ihoped that the distance he’d put between us was just for the night. But over the next several days, it becomes very clear that’s not the case.

Levin gets into a handful of games, each at a different club or hotel, and each progressively higher-stakes than the last. We follow the same routine—I dress up and act as a distraction for the table, bringing him drinks and occasionally passing by to touch or kiss him, and it works every time. I suspect it’s a combination of the distraction and Levin’s actual skill at gambling. Still, he’s confident that having me there is a significant factor. I’m not sure if he’s just flattering me or not, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it’s working.

We don’t have enough money to get out of Rio yet, but I can see Levin’s spirits lifting with the end of each game. We still stay in cheap hotels, tucking away every last bit that we can, only using part of it to buy another dress for me so we can try to avoid my being seen in the same thing too many times. It’s clear that he thinks we’re getting close to being able to leave, and I don’t entirely know how that makes me feel.

The distance he puts between us is a symptom of that, I’m almost certain. As going back to Boston gets closer, he’s pulling away, and it makes me feel crazy with the idea of the time we’re losing—time that I’ll never get back, once we leave Rio.

He doesn’t sleep in the same bed with me again. He doesn’t talk to me nearly as much when we’re not discussing what I’ll do the night of a game. And I can see him trying not to look at me when I come out of the bathroom dressed for the night.

I know he wants me. He can’t hide it that easily. But somewhere between that last night when he’d lost his self-control completely and the next morning, he found a way to close himself off to me again.

It gets so bad that when he comes back to the motel two days after a game with lunch, I almost jump out of my skin when he speaks to me.

“Wear the purple dress tomorrow tonight, I think.”

I nearly drop my book, looking up sharply at the door as he walks in. “You startled me,” I tell him, unable to keep a hint of irritation out of my voice. I don’t want to be frustrated with him, but I can’t help it. It’s more than just him not touching me any longer. I miss everything about him, when he’s not so withdrawn. I’ve seen other sides to him, and I miss the conversations we’ve had, the nights falling asleep in his arms. I miss all of it.

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