Chapter 13
Eva
My fingers wouldn't stop finding his. Walking down Bleecker Street toward The Strand, I kept reaching for Dmitry's hand like I was afraid he might disappear—lacing our fingers together, playing with the silver rings on his right hand, tracing the raised scars across his knuckles from years of violence I was only beginning to understand.
Every few steps, I'd let go just to grab him again, needing the confirmation of his solid warmth against my palm.
The dress swished around my knees as we walked, soft blue cotton that Dmitry had picked out himself from a boutique that morning.
It had tiny buttons down the front and cap sleeves that showed my arms, and I'd never owned anything so deliberately pretty.
Not sexy or functional or stolen—just pretty.
But what made me feel beautiful wasn't the dress itself.
It was the way Dmitry's eyes had gone dark when I'd stepped out of his bedroom wearing it, the way his hand had found my waist and pulled me against him, the way he'd whispered "perfect" into my hair before we left.
I was a little nervous—Dmitry himself had said he’d be watching for tails and people spying us—but I also felt confident, amazing to be out.
Bear trotted between us on his new leather leash, tail wagging at everything—every pigeon that dared hop too close, every interesting smell wafting from restaurant vents, every person who smiled at his ridiculous puppy enthusiasm.
He'd figured out the leash in about thirty seconds, and now he pranced like he'd been going on walks his whole life instead of just the past two weeks.
"Stop," Dmitry said suddenly, pulling me to a halt in front of a bodega.
"What?"
Instead of answering, he bought a bottle of water and a small paper cup, pouring water for Bear right there on the sidewalk.
Bear lapped it up messily, getting water all over the concrete, and an older woman passing by made approving sounds at what a good dog parent Dmitry was.
The casual care of it—thinking of Bear's needs without being asked, carrying water for our dog—made my chest tight with emotion I couldn't name.
The Strand's red awning appeared like a beacon at Broadway and 12th, and my steps quickened despite myself. Eighteen miles of books, the sign promised. Eighteen miles of stories, beautiful editions, windows to new worlds.
"Slow down, little one," Dmitry said, amused. "The books aren't going anywhere."
But my body was already responding to proximity—to that particular smell that hit me the moment we pushed through the doors.
Old paper and binding glue, dust and vanilla from decomposing lignin, the sharp tang of fresh ink from new releases.
It smelled like every library I'd ever hidden in, every bookstore I'd ever haunted, every moment I'd ever felt safe between pages instead of walls.
"Mr. Volkov?" A staff member appeared immediately, young and eager with thick-rimmed glasses and a Strand apron. "We got your call. Bear is absolutely welcome. We even have treats."
She produced a glass jar labeled "Literary Pups" in neat handwriting, offering Bear a biscuit that he took with surprising gentleness.
His whole back end wagged with joy, and I realized Dmitry had called ahead, had made sure our dog could come in, had thought through every detail to make this perfect.
"Take your time," Dmitry said, his hand warm on my lower back. "I'll follow."
I dove into the stacks like coming home.
Fiction first, my fingers trailing along familiar spines—Austen and Bronte, Morrison and García Márquez.
Old friends I'd read in libraries, borrowed and returned, never owned.
The Strand had everything from battered paperbacks to pristine first editions, democracy through literature, and I touched them all with the same reverence.
Dmitry followed with Bear, never rushing, never checking his phone.
He watched me like I was more interesting than any book, his dark eyes tracking my movements as I stretched to reach higher shelves.
When I couldn't quite grasp a beautiful hardcover of collected Emily Dickinson, he pressed against my back to get it for me, his chest solid against my shoulders, his cologne mixing with the book smell in a way that made me dizzy.
"This one?" he asked, his breath warm against my ear.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, taking the book with hands that shook slightly. The casual intimacy of it—his body against mine in public, helpful and protective without being possessive—scrambled my brain in the best way.
I kept picking up books and setting them back down, mental math calculating what I could ask for without seeming greedy.
A paperback of "The God of Small Things" that I'd been meaning to reread.
A collection of Mary Oliver poetry with a cracked spine.
A pristine copy of "Their Eyes Were Watching God" that made my fingers itch.
By the time we'd covered two floors, I had seven books clutched against my chest like armor. Too many. Way too many. I started putting them back, keeping just the three cheapest, but Dmitry's hand covered mine as I reached to reshelf the Dickinson.
"All of them," he said simply.
"But—"
"All of them, Eva." He took the books from my arms, adding the ones I'd tried to put back, and headed for the register without waiting for my protest.
I stood frozen in Russian Literature, watching him chat with the cashier while Bear sat perfectly at his feet.
The stack of books grew as they were rung up—my books, that I would own, that would live on shelves instead of in libraries.
The cashier put them in a red Strand tote bag, the famous one that every literary person in New York carried like a badge of honor.
When Dmitry handed me the bag, the weight of it made my eyes burn with sudden tears. Not just the physical weight of seven books, though that was substantial. The weight of ownership, of choice, of being given something simply because I wanted it.
"Thank you," I whispered, clutching the bag against my chest.
He kissed my forehead, right there in the middle of The Strand, surrounded by tourists and NYU students and literary New York. "You never have to put books back again," he said against my skin. "Never, baby. You want eighteen miles of books? I'll buy you eighteen thousand miles of books."
Walking out onto Broadway with my Strand tote and my man and my dog, I felt rich in a way that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with the casual abundance of being loved.
The books knocked against my hip with each step, solid and real and mine, and I couldn't stop smiling even though my cheeks hurt from the unfamiliar expression.
This was what normal people did. They went to bookstores with their boyfriends, bought too many books, walked their dogs on sunny afternoons. They held hands on city sidewalks and didn't constantly check for exits or weapons or danger. They just existed, happy and safe and whole.
I laced my fingers through Dmitry's again, squeezing tight, and he squeezed back like he understood everything I couldn't say. Bear trotted ahead to investigate a particularly interesting trash can, and we let him, in no rush to get anywhere, just three souls enjoying a perfect New York afternoon.
The subway platform at Union Square vibrated with Saturday energy—families with strollers, tourists with maps, teenagers with attitudes that reminded me of my own not so long ago.
Dmitry positioned himself between me and the crowd without seeming to, his body a wall against the press of strangers.
When the 4 train pulled up, he guided me into the car with a hand on my lower back, finding space by the door where we could stand together.
Bear tucked himself between our feet, pressed against our legs like he'd been riding the subway his whole life.
A little girl across from us pointed at him with sticky fingers, and her mother whispered that she could look but not pet without asking.
The normalcy of it—being the kind of people others saw as safe, as a couple with a dog on a Saturday adventure—made my throat tight.
Dmitry's arm came around me as the train lurched into motion, pulling me against his chest. I could feel other passengers looking at us, and for the first time in my life, I didn't care.
Let them look. Let them see this man who bought me books and held me on trains and made me feel like I deserved beautiful things.
"Next stop, Borough Hall," the conductor announced, voice barely audible over the train noise.
"Two more," Dmitry said into my hair. "You hungry?"
"Starving," I admitted.
The crowd thinned as we moved deeper into Brooklyn, and by the time we emerged at Prospect Park, the afternoon sun felt like a blessing after the underground darkness.
Smorgasburg sprawled before us—dozens of white tents and food trucks, smoke from grills creating a haze that smelled like heaven.
The sound hit next: vendors calling orders, oil sizzling, customers laughing over beers in the afternoon sun.
"Holy shit," I breathed, stopping at the entrance to take it all in.
"Wait until you see the options," Dmitry said, amused by my wonder.
He wasn't wrong. We walked the perimeter first, and my head spun trying to process it all.
Korean BBQ sending up clouds of garlic-scented smoke.
Lobster rolls piled high with meat that cost more than I used to spend on food in a week.
Artisanal donuts with flavors like hibiscus and tahini.
Venezuelan arepas. Japanese okonomiyaki.
Things I couldn't even identify but that smelled incredible.
"Pick anything," Dmitry said, Bear pulling toward a stand selling something that involved bacon. "Whatever you want."