Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
GWENNA
The meal that night is clearly meant to be festive.
The Russians are loud, jovial, drinking.
The lights are bright, electric and candles.
And the table's set with proper place and linens.
Every so often someone pops up with a toast to honorable competition, to glory in combat, to our guests from America, to the health of the earth.
The last one makes my stomach turn.
The food is much more elaborate now. Deep red borscht, silky meat dumplings, a spread of every vegetable you could possibly pickle, black bread and butter, and cups of kvass—a bready taste, sort of like beer, and just slightly alcoholic.
We're still segregating, men and women, but it feels a little less strict somehow. There's a high table too. Father Maksim, Luther, and the Archmandrite, who I studiously avoid looking at. He just sort of sits there like a black void, unmoving, not eating.
A few tables away, the Caliburn team sits eating slowly, carefully, glancing at me every other second.
They look…tense. Wound tight. Wary, like soldiers before a battle, not athletes before a tournament.
Kai catches my eye and gives the smallest shake of his head—stay there.
Lanz's hand keeps drifting to where his blade would be.
Callahan sits with his back to the wall, eyes on the door.
"So exciting," Dasha says. "It's so exciting.
What will all happen tomorrow?" She looks genuinely enthusiastic, and I try to give her a smile.
Just because I find all this weird doesn't mean I need to be a bitch to her.
She's literally been nothing but kind. Sveta is a little harsher, maybe, but all she's doing is telling me to eat, and little Katyenka gave me her room.
I shrivel a little on the inside. "Do you like fencing?" I ask. "You go to see a lot of the tournaments? Do I like..."
Dasha looks briefly confused. Then she brightens. "Ah, yes, yes, of course." She looks at Sveta, at Katyenka. "All of us, we do."
Aurora goes up from the Russian table, drawing turned heads from all across the room. It's Moroslav, standing now, holding up his glass.
After dinner, the girls walk with me back to the dormitory, speaking mostly in Russian or in English, so fragmented I'm too tired to understand it. I'm barely listening. My mind is buzzing as they deliver me to my door.
"Sleep well," calls Dasha.
"Big day tomorrow," Svetlana adds.
I smile, wish them the same, nod, close my door, and finally I'm alone. I sit on my bed, listening. Their footsteps fade. They go to their rooms. Talking, laughing. And then stillness. Total quiet.
I sit and watch the clock. 9, 10, 11 p.m. I flick through the only thing I have for entertainment: the exciting conclusion of The Michelangelo Matrix, Dr. Patton Montgomery and the beautiful Fabienne chasing down bad guys through the halls of the British Museum.
Finally, it's midnight. I open the door so slowly and quietly. The hallway's empty, dimly lit, and the floor is freezing, even through my socks. I move barely a step at a time, freezing what feels like a night. Like, every five seconds. But it's truly quiet, no one here.
This is stupid, it's exactly what I said I wasn't going to do.
But I can't help it, I've made up my mind.
If something happens to us, I don't want that to happen.
I don't want that to be the case. But at this point, it's out of my hands.
And the only thing it feels like I can do is go to him, find him.
I have to remember the route from the tour.
I get turned around once, a dead end, and then I backtrack.
I pass the same icon of St. George slaying the dragon what feels like 50 times, its eyes seeming to follow me.
And then I remember. I find the same passage where we merged with the men exiting their dormitory, and I turn.
It's much the same as our hallway. Doors all identical, no way to tell which is his, and it's not like I'm going to just knock on them randomly and ask. I'm standing there, heart pounding, regretting my stupid rash judgment for everything I've seen, when a door opens.
"Gwenna?”
Kingston. Dark joggers, dark T-shirt, the straps of his scapular just visible under the collar and the bruise on his inner elbow stark in the hallway light.
I almost melt with relief.
“Gwenna?” He frowns. “What do you—”
I swallow hard and force the words out before I lose my nerve. “Can I come in?” I whisper.
The surprise on his face shifts to concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. No. I’m fine. I’m…” My fingers are at my waist, fidgeting. I force myself to stop. “I just wondered if I could see you.”
It takes a moment. But recognition dawns. Even in the dim light of the St. Ignaty’s hallway, I swear I can see his pupils dilate.
Please, Kingston. Don’t make me embarrass myself.
“Gwenna.” He lowers his voice. “You don’t have to do anything for…with me.”
“What if I want to?”
His golden eyes flicker, his lips part just a tiny bit.
“Unless it will throw off your game,” I add hastily.
“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, I can’t say for sure. But.” He presses his lips together. His whole body filling the doorframe.
And then he steps aside.
“Come in.”
I do.
The room’s as spare as mine is. Sand-colored walls, window seat, a small desk, a minuscule ensuite.
A double bed.
Now I’m nervous again. My fingers back to fidgeting, my eyes flicking back and forth to him, casting for words, for anything to say.
“You feeling better?” I blurt out. “From your…”
I point at the bruise. Kingston looks down at his arm.
“I’m fine,” he says, after a moment. Like he’s taken aback that I’d even ask. “It was…”
A distant look comes over his face, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve miscalculated entirely.
“Good,” I say, rushing on, babbling. “I hate needles. And blood. Anything like that. I get really woozy. It’s embarrassing, but—”
Stop. Stop. I have to stop. I have to cut myself off and stop talking. I close my eyes, tense my fists, try to regroup.
Open my eyes.
Breathe.
“Kingston, I—”
He sweeps me into a kiss before I can even finish the thought. Leans into me and takes me by the waist so my back is gently pressed into the closed door.
And then, just as quickly, he lets me go.
“I’m sorry.” He retreats a step, clears his throat. God, he’s handsome. “I’m sorry. I…”
I laugh a little. “You don’t have to be so…obsequious, Kingston. It’s just me.”
Except my heart is beating so hard.
He smiles. “I know.”
He stands there, at attention, Kingston Pendragon, straight and solemn, with his whites ready on a hanger and his mask and glove waiting on the desk and his blades lying across the hard brown cushions of the window seat.
Outside, snow drifts against gray.
A quiet night.
Welcome to the edge of the map.
“You should probably be sleeping,” I say softly.
Kingston shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
He takes a step towards me.
“Are you sure?”
I take a step towards him.
“Gwenna, I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.”
One last step, and he cradles my face in his hands.
Kissing Kingston is good. He is a good, good kisser—far better than anyone with such a big gap in his kissing resume has any right to be. His mouth is warm and soft and easy on mine, and yet he stays steady, firm. Sure. Pressing further, deeper, a fraction of an inch at a time.
Not so he can stay in control. But so I don’t have to.
On a sharp intake of breath, he pulls my body to his.
“Gwenna,” he murmurs into my lips, into the hollow under my jaw, and I am wordless. For once. Blank, beautifully—all feeling, no thoughts.
I could die like this.
We’re moving across the floor—the backs of my knees hit something.
The bed. Please, I think, all of me, all at once, and lower myself to the soft surface even as I’m pulling at him to be closer.
I lie back as his broad hands skim under my sweater and up the sides of my ribcage, thumbs rolling over the bottom edge of my bra and then the swell of my breasts.
The inhale he sucks through his teeth makes me clench deep, deep inside.
“God,” he says against my mouth. “I want all of you.”
I’m nodding, my fingers trembling as I run them through his hair, goosebumps skittering over my skin as he moves from my chest to my waist and his fingertips find the top edge of my tights.
Yes, my mind screams as he hooks under the elastic, eases it over and down, all while kissing me so deeply I feel dizzy. Yes.
“So take me,” I murmur, seizing the back of his neck and pulling him to me again. “Fuck me, Kingston.”
Above me, he stiffens.
Stops.
My eyes fly open, dread flooding me like cold water.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. That was—”
I inch up the bed, away from him, terrified and stupid and embarrassed, all made worse by the fact that my tights are halfway down my legs and my sweater is pushed up to my armpits.
Kingston leans back on his heels, his knees just straddling my ankles now, the expression on his face somewhere between stunned and contrite.
“Don’t…” He closes his eyes, jaw tense. Then opens them. “I’m sorry. Don’t apologize. This is just…” He opens his eyes, blows out a long exhale, rubs his palms down his thighs. “I’m not acclimated. I…you caught me off guard.”
I’m leaning on my elbows now, throat thick. But I nod. “I didn’t mean…” Fuck. My face is white hot, my eyes prickling. My newfound habit of rotating sex partners notwithstanding, I’m not exactly…adventurous like that. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone to fuck me before in my life.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to.
Kingston glances up at me, and once again his expression changes. Softens, immediately. He leans forward again, advances so he’s looking down into my eyes and his arms are bridging over me.
“I hope you did mean it.”