Chapter 13 Vera #2
Except what I’m feeling for Dimitri is different. It’s not the breathless excitement of stolen moments and secret meetings. It’s not the thrill of forbidden romance or the comfort of someone telling me everything will be okay.
What I feel when I look at Dimitri is complicated in ways that make my head spin.
Alexei felt like a fairy tale. Beautiful but ultimately fragile, existing in the spaces between reality where consequences couldn’t touch us. Dimitri feels like truth. Hard and unforgiving and impossible to ignore.
And that makes me a piece of shit, doesn’t it?
To be pregnant with one brother’s baby while having…. whatever these are for the other. To be replacing Alexei in my heart when his grave is barely settled.
I spend an afternoon in the library where I first really talked to Dimitri, and I cry great, wracking sobs that tear through me like violence.
I cry for Alexei, for the future we’ll never have.
I cry for this baby who will never know their father.
And I cry for myself, for being such a horrible person that I could forget the man I loved so easily because that’s what this feels like.
I’m forgetting him. Replacing him. Trading his memory for something darker and more complex with his brother.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Alexei’s ghost and my own guilty conscience. “I’m so sorry. I loved you. I swear I loved you.”
But even as I say it, I know it sounds hollow, like I’m trying to convince myself as much as his memory.
Did I love him? Or did I love the idea of him—the escape, the romance, the fairy tale?
And if I didn’t really love him, what does that make me?
The thoughts spiral, dark and accusatory, until I’m so exhausted I can barely move.
That night, I barely sleep.
Dimitri doesn’t come to my room, which I didn’t expect, but it still feels like rejection.
God what is wrong with me? It was just one stupid night and now I’m listening for his footsteps in the hallway? And I’m disappointed I don’t hear them?
I hate myself a little more with each passing hour.
What if last night was just physical release and nothing more?
Two people seeking comfort in the aftermath of a nightmare, using each other to feel something other than pain.
What if I’m creating feelings that don’t exist because I’m desperate and alone and pregnant and clinging to anyone who shows me the slightest bit of kindness?
What if everything I think I’m seeing in him is just my imagination? What if he’s just tolerating me because of the baby, and I’m pathetic enough to mistake tolerance for something more?
The thoughts chase themselves in circles until I’m dizzy with them.
By the time dawn breaks, I’m exhausted and confused and so tangled up in my own emotions that I don’t know which way is up anymore.
I just know that something has shifted and I can’t ignore it anymore.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
The next morning, Dimitri insists I accompany him to a meeting with one of his legitimate business partners.
“It’s just formalities,” he explains as I clamber into the front passenger seat of his armored SUV. “Contract negotiations for the shipping routes. You’ll probably find it boring, but after the attack, I’m not leaving you at the house alone.”
“I wouldn’t be alone,” I point out as I settle myself in the leather seat. “There are guards everywhere. Mrs. Kozlov. Anya. Half your organization runs through that house.”
“You’re coming with me,” he repeats, and there’s no arguing with that tone.
So here I am, watching the city roll past the tinted windows while Dimitri drives. Roman and two other guards are in a decoy vehicle ahead of us and another decoy car follows us. It’s meant to draw attention away from the real one.
I’m familiar with it as my father and Uncle Marcus never traveled anywhere without a decoy car following them.
If I hadn’t grown up in this world, I would have found this to be oppressive, but after the bombing attempt at the peace meeting, I get why there’s two decoy cars. Someone wants us dead, and whoever they are, they’re not going to stop after one attempt.
“What are you listening to?” I ask, mostly to break the uncomfortable silence that’s settled between us.
Dimitri glances at me, then at the phone connected to the car’s speakers. A song is playing—something with guitars and a voice I vaguely recognize. My brow furrows as I listen to the song. Is that…?
“Nickelback?” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice. “Dimitri Volkov listens to Nickelback?”
His ears turn slightly red, which is adorable. “What’s wrong with Nickelback?”
“Nothing, if you’re a frat boy in 2005.” I bite back a smile. “I just didn’t picture you as a ‘Photograph’ kind of guy.”
“It’s not ‘Photograph,’” he mutters defensively, and I swear his blush deepens. “It’s ‘How You Remind Me.’”
“Oh, well, that’s completely different then.” I lean back in my seat, enjoying this far too much. “Much more sophisticated. Very crime lord appropriate.”
His jaw twitches, but I see the corner of his mouth fighting not to lift. “I don’t hear you offering any better suggestions.”
“Better than Nickelback? That’s a pretty low bar.” I can’t believe I’m teasing him, and it feels strange and wonderful all at once. “Please tell me you at least skip ‘Rockstar.’”
His eyes cut to mine and he looks genuinely perplexed. “What’s wrong with ‘Rockstar’?”
“Oh my God.” I actually laugh, the sound surprising both of us. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in... what, weeks? Definitely before Alexei’s death. The sound feels foreign and wrong, but also desperately needed. “You’re serious right now” You actually like ‘Rockstar?’”
“It’s a good song,” he insists, but there’s something lighter, almost playful in his voice. “Not everyone can be a music snob.”
“I’m not a snob. I just have taste.” I turn slightly in my seat to face him better. “Next you’re going to tell me you have Creed on here too.”
“What’s wrong with Creed?” He says it so genuinely defensive, that I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
“What’s wrong with Creed? Where do I even start?” I’m fully smiling now, and his eyes catch on my mouth, darken slightly before flicking back to my eyes. “Let me guess— ‘With Arms Wide Open’ is your shower song.”
His entire ears are definitely red now. “I don’t sing in the shower.”
I hear what he doesn’t say. “But you do have it on your playlist,” I respond, my lips twitching with suppressed laughter.
The silence that follows is answer enough, and I actually giggle. It sounds girlish and I should be embarrassed but I’m too busy watching Dimitri’s reaction.
Because he’s smiling. Actually smiling. Gone is his usual hard, controlled expression and there’s something genuine and warm that transforms his entire face.
He has a dimple right there on his left cheek. It’s visible when he smiles like this. How did I never notice that before? It softens every harsh angle and makes him look younger, almost boyish.
And his eyes—those gray eyes that I’ve only ever seen cold or angry or shuttered—they’re lighter now. Warmer, like storm clouds parting to let through sunlight. There are tiny crinkles at the corners that suggest he doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s genuine and beautiful.
My heart does something stupid. It flutters and skips, a traitorous little flip that makes warmth spread through me.
He’s so good looking like this. Not just handsome in the abstract way I’ve acknowledged before, but affecting. The kind of attractive that makes my breath catch and makes me want to reach out and trace that dimple with my fingertip. It makes me forget every reason I should keep my distance.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly, and there’s a roughness to it that’s not anger.
I am staring. I can’t seem to stop. “You smiled.”
“I smile.”
“Not like that.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Not a real smile.”
Something shifts in his expression. The smile fades slightly, but his eyes stay warm, searching my face like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling. “You make fun of my music and suddenly I’m smiling ‘real’?”
I shrug nonchalantly, trying to will my rapidly beating heart to chill out.
“Apparently your terrible taste in music is your weakness.” Am I—am I seriously flirting with Dimitri?
I’m actually flirting with him, and I don’t know how to stop or even if I want to stop.
“Who knew the great Dimitri Volkov could be undone by Nickelback mockery?”
“Undone?” His voice drops lower, and the sound makes my stomach flip and heat pool low in my core. “That’s a strong word.”
When did the car get so warm? “Well, you’re blushing.” Is it possible for me to open a window surreptitiously to get some air?
“I’m not blushing.” But his ears are still red, and when I raise an eyebrow at him, he actually looks away, which is somehow even more endearing. Dimitri Volkov, flustered. Who would have thought?
“Sure you’re not.” I shouldn’t keep teasing him and basking in this warmth between us. But I can’t help myself. “Should I check the rest of your playlist? See what other embarrassing—”
“Absolutely not.” He snatches his phone away before I can reach for it, and our hands brush just barely, just for a second, but electricity shoots up my arm at the contact.
His eyes meet mine, and the playfulness shifts. The air between us feels thick suddenly, heavy with awareness and unspoken things.
What am I doing? Pull back, Vera. Create distance. This is your captor husband for fuck’s sake!
I ignore my thoughts. Instead, I hear myself ask, “What else are you hiding in there? Imagine Dragons? Nickelback’s deep cuts?”
His lips twitch again, and that damned dimple appears. “You’re really enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.” My heart is racing now, a blush spreading across my cheeks. “It’s nice seeing you as a person instead of…”
“Instead of?” He prompts when I trail off.