Chapter 9
9
KATERINA
K aterina knocked so hard on the door to Niko’s room, it threatened to bruise her knuckles. She wanted to pound on it, but that would draw attention. Already, the other Dimis and Shadows were streaming in, some of them obviously the worse for drink, with Sofi and Damien bringing up the rear.
Sofi slid Katerina a grin, which Katerina did her best to return. She was pretty sure she did a terrible job, because the other Dimi rolled her eyes in response. She didn’t stop to question Katerina, though, thank the Saints, just signed, “Later,” and headed up the stairs. Behind her, Damien raised his tumbler of kvass to Katerina in salute, then padded down the hallway toward his room, leaving a trail of bloodied sand in his wake.
By all the Saints and demons, what could be keeping her Shadow? She knocked again, more insistently still. “Niko, I don’t care if you have a bevy of Vila beauties in your bed,” she snapped, though it was a blatant lie. “Open the door this instant, or?—”
The words died on her lips as the door swung inward, the firelight within illuminating the form of her Shadow. He was bare from the waist up, clad only in his leather fighting pants. On the bicep of his left arm gleamed Katerina’s Mark: three interlocking circles, the black pigment of the dye mixed with her blood. He’d taken the rawhide tie out of his dark hair, and it fell loose to his shoulders. The tips dripped water onto his muscled chest, crisscrossed by scars that she knew as well as the lines of her own palm: A thin, long-healed souvenir from his first sparring match. The silvered track of another Shadow’s teeth, which would never heal completely. An etched, jagged line from a blade soaked in Grigori venom.
As if taunting her, the firelight flickered over the white streak in his dark hair that had come after Baba Petrova inked Katerina’s Mark on his skin. Every Shadow had a distinguishing feature, something besides their Mark that showed how they’d been changed by the bond. It was just Katerina’s luck that Niko’s was so visible. Each time she looked at it, she was reminded how he was hers and yet not, all at the same time.
Why did he have to be so Saints-damned beautiful? Speechless, she tried to stop staring but only succeeded in glancing downward, to the V of muscles that disappeared beneath the waistband of his fighting leathers, which didn’t help. At all.
“You called?” Niko said, his voice wry. “For someone who wanted my attention, Katya, you don’t seem to have a lot to say.”
Her childhood nickname, the one only he was allowed to use, did the trick. Lifting her head, Katerina found his eyes locked on hers, glittering with amusement and an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. She opened her mouth, shut it again, then mastered herself with an effort. “Sorry to pull you away from whatever orgy kept you from answering the door, but we have a situation.”
At the word ‘orgy,’ Niko snorted, swinging the door wide. His room was empty, the bed neatly made, his clothes for the evening’s feast laid out across the foot. “I can’t decide whether to be gratified that you think I’m capable of satisfying a host of women after the night we’ve just had, or insulted that you think I’d betray Elena that way,” he said, motioning for her to enter. “I was getting dressed, Katerina. And attempting to bathe. I see you had no such concerns.”
Elena’s name was like a bucket of cold water dashed right into Katerina’s face. She stalked into his room and stood in the middle of his hearth rug, letting the fire warm her. He followed, shutting the door and then leaning back against it, regarding her with that same indecipherable look. “What’s the matter, Katya?” he said, his voice soft.
The gentleness in it almost broke her. But she couldn’t afford to break, not now. She had to be strong. “We need to leave,” she said, her tone clipped. “For the love of the Saints, dry your hair and put on a shirt, would you? You’re dripping everywhere.”
Niko arched a quizzical eyebrow but obeyed, turning away from her to grab a towel from the armoire. “Please tell me there wasn’t an assassin waiting in your bedchamber.” His voice was light, but with a distinct edge.
“Replace ‘assassin’ with ‘woman who wanted me to have the shits all night’ and ‘bedchamber’ with ‘hallway,’ and you’ll be right on the nose,” she said, doing her best to ignore the way the muscles in his back shifted as he straightened.
Niko spun, using the preternatural speed he usually only reserved for battle. “Explain yourself,” he said, his tone clipped, all amusement drained away.
So Katerina did, leaving out only Dimi Zakharova’s insinuation that an inappropriate relationship existed between her and Niko. She was not going there, not now. Not ever.
With each word she spoke, Niko’s gray eyes darkened. He ran a hand through his damp hair as she finished, ending with, “We need to go now, Niko. Tonight. If she tells the Kniaz what she suspects… We need to get back to Kalach. To warn Baba.”
He paced in front of her, the firelight playing over his face. Thank the Saints, he’d put on a shirt—not the ruffled one that lay at the foot of his bed, but the fitted one he normally wore beneath his fighting leathers. “Do you want me to kill her?”
She peered at him, trying to ascertain if he was serious. He stared back at her, giving her nothing, and she threw up her hands in exasperation. “No, Niko, I don’t. If I wanted her dead, I would’ve done it myself. You don’t think murdering the Kniaz’s pet would draw even more unwanted attention to us, if anyone connected the dots?”
Niko sank down onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders heaving in a sigh. “You’re right. But we can’t just leave, Katerina.”
“Why not?” she challenged.
He shot her an incredulous look. “For one thing, we’re expected at the feast tonight. If two of the six victors don’t show up, you don’t think that will draw unwanted attention? For another, what with the increased attacks, riding through the night, this close to the full Bone Moon, is tempting fate. I vote we keep an eye on her and leave first thing in the morning.”
Now Katerina was the one pacing. “Saints only knows what harm she could do in a single evening. We have to go. We can make our excuses to the Kniaz, tell him we’re needed at home.”
He snorted. “We’re needed at home so badly that we can’t spend a night eating food the likes of which we’ll never see in Kalach, being honored before Iriska’s royalty, then drinking until we can’t stand up? No one leaves before the feast, Katya. Even the Shadows and Dimis who failed today will stay until the morning. We’ll be hard-pressed to explain this away.”
Desperate, she drew her trump card. Niko was sworn to protect her. Maybe this would work, if nothing else did. “As despicable as I find Dimi Zakharova, she was right about one thing. Kniaz Sergey doesn’t just crave my power. He wants me .”
Niko stared up at her, his jaw working. He didn’t say a word.
“My body ,” she clarified, in case he didn’t understand.
“How do you know this?” The words were a growl.
“He all but came out and said it.” Power prickled at her fingertips at the memory, and Niko shifted his weight as the spillover pulsed through their bond.
“Did he touch you?” Her Shadow’s fists clenched the coverlet so tightly the fabric protested, the seams giving way under his grip.
“He did not.” She came to a stop in front of Niko, endeavoring to pry his fingers loose. “Quit destroying the bedclothes, would you, or we’ll have yet another crime to answer for.”
He turned his furious gaze on hers. “Did you want him to, Katya?”
Katerina stopped trying to rescue the coverlet from Niko and stared at him instead. “Now I’m the one who can’t decide whether to be insulted or… No, I’m just insulted,” she said, each word a cube of ice. “Did I want a man I can’t stand, who uses his power to manipulate those who have no choice but to obey, to put his hands all over me? I can’t believe I have to dignify this with a response, but no, Niko, I did not. I’d break his fingers first and sell his Saints-cursed rings to feed all of Kalach.”
Her Shadow dropped his head, staring at the rug beneath his feet. His shoulders were rigid beneath the thin material of his shirt, but when he spoke, his voice was laced with a plea. “I apologize for the insinuation. Forgive me, Katya.”
She took a deep breath, inhaling his familiar scent: leather and blood, sweat and mint. No matter where she was, he was home.
But the two of them didn’t belong here, and the sooner they left, the better. “On one condition,” she said. “We ride for Kalach tonight.”
Niko’s head came up, his eyes dark with fury, his jaw granite-hard with resolve. He unhinged the latter long enough to utter a single syllable.
“Done,” he said.