34. Elena #3
A few seats away from the others, the quiet settles around me like a thin blanket. The engines drone steadily beneath the floorboards. The faint scent of leather and polished wood hangs in the cabin. It gives me room to breathe. Enough for a few quiet moments to think.
Time to prepare.
The seat across from me shifts.
I glance up.
Clara drops into it with the casual grace of someone who belongs anywhere she chooses to sit. A glass canteen rests in her hand. She twists the stopper loose and pours a ribbon of brown liquid into two waiting glasses on the small table between us.
Ice hisses the moment it meets the liquor. The sound is sharp in the quiet.
She seals the canteen again and sets it down before sliding one glass toward me.
The scent reaches me first, warm spice and sweet smoke. Cinnamon. Vanilla. A faint bite of grain.
Bourbon.
“Never really been my drink of choice,” I say.
I don’t bother adding the other reason. In the States, I’m still technically too young to drink.
Not that anyone would dare deny a foreign queen a glass if she asked.
The thought draws a small smile from me as memories flicker through my mind, crystal flutes of champagne constantly refilled during my last official visit to the States, servers hovering as if letting my glass go empty might cause an international incident.
Clara leans back in her seat. “Figured you could use the strong stuff.”
I lift the glass.
The smell alone makes my nose wrinkle. The alcohol burns before it even touches my lips. I pause there for a moment, gathering my resolve, then tip the glass back.
The liquid rolls across my tongue, rich and smoky, and then it hits the back of my throat like fire. My lungs threaten rebellion. For one horrifying second, I’m certain I’m going to cough like an amateur.
I refuse and swallow. Hard.
The burn drags all the way down to my chest, and I force my expression into something resembling calm as I lower the glass. The cool mineral weight of it presses against my palm.
Across from me, Clara watches. Unblinking.
Her attention hasn’t moved from my face since the moment she handed me the drink.
I tilt my head slightly. “Something on your mind?”
She exhales through her nose. “Other than the fact that I still don’t like this plan?”
“So, you’ve mentioned,” I murmur.
She raises her glass slightly before taking a long drink.
Unlike me, she doesn’t fight it. The bourbon disappears down her throat like water, and she sets the glass down with the easy confidence of someone who has never lost a battle with alcohol in her life.
“If you died,” she speaks quietly, “it would kill Lex.”
My eyes snap to hers. “It would kill me if he died.”
She nods once. “I know.”
The silence settles between us again. Her fingers flex slowly around the glass. There is something else there, something sitting right beneath the surface.
I wait.
Eventually, she sighs and leans back. “When I first met you,” she starts, “I had to admit I was… perplexed when I realized you’d captured Alexei’s heart.”
My brows pull together. “Uh… thanks?”
Clara barks out a short laugh, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Relax. After our first meeting, when you were glaring daggers at me for breathing in his direction, and then watching you tear through Ivan’s compound to save him… I understood.”
Her words hang in the air.
I study her face. “Where exactly is this conversation going?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stares down into the amber liquid swirling in her glass. And suddenly it clicks.
My breath catches softly. “You miss it.”
Her head jerks up. “Miss…what?”
“Loving someone like that,” I guess gently.
For a fraction of a second, her eyes widen. Then the expression disappears as quickly as it came, her features locking back into their usual cool composure.
“Love is a weakness,” she replies.
I can see it in her eyes, as she relieves the moment that Tate—her former partner, and the man she once loved—betrayed her and everything he stood for, for power and money.
But the bite to her words isn’t there this time. Not the way it used to be.
A smile curls at the corner of my mouth as I set my glass on the table. “I don’t think you believe that.”
Clara drags her tongue slowly across her bottom lip before tossing back the rest of the bourbon. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “The mission is the only thing that matters.”
I say nothing. Because the tension in her shoulders says otherwise.
After a moment, she clears her throat. “That little show you put on back in Papa Novak’s office,” she begins slowly. “Why that one specifically?”
“You mean you and Ruslan?—”
“Keep your voice down,” she mutters sharply, leaning forward.
I lean forward too, resting my elbows on my knees and lowering my voice. “Not all of it was my abilities.”
Her eyes narrow. “Not this again.”
“You asked.”
She glares at me.
I shrug slightly. “If I had to guess,” I continue. “I showed you what you’re already struggling with.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Which,” I add, glancing pointedly at the glass in her hand, “is probably why you’re drinking and interrogating me.”
“I drink because it might be my last,” she snaps, already popping the stopper off the canteen again.
Amber liquid begins pouring into her glass.
I reach forward and snatch the canteen out of her hand mid-pour.
“Hey!” she growls.
“Drinking solves nothing.”