12. （False） Confidence
(FALSE) CONFIDENCE
Ten Years Earlier
Isuck in a deep breath, not halting the inhale until I picture my lungs popping like overinflated balloons, then allow all the air to release in a long gust. Tap the plastic key above the door handle, waiting for the beep and flash of green, then enter with what I hope is a projected aura of (false) confidence.
Turn after passing the closet and abruptly freeze, barely aware of the distant click as the door swings shut behind me.
Lev says something in Russian. Rapid and low. A swear, if I had to guess at a rough translation.
The gun is lowered. Set on the mattress.
I don’t move. I can’t.
I’ve barely processed a deadly weapon was just pointed at me. There’s no relief my life is no longer in mortal danger because I’m preoccupied by disbelief. I didn’t duck. Or run. Or scream. My reflexes—at least around Lev Sokolov—suck.
He curses in English this time, a husky, “Fuck,” that has the hairs on the back of my neck lifting.
I was nervous—excited—about coming, and now I’m too flooded with adrenaline to focus on any singular emotion.
I know I should move away as he approaches, but that’s beyond my legs’ current abilities. I’m still too stunned to move.
“What are you doing here?” Lev demands. The question seethes with irritation.
Some outrage seeps in, unlocking my muscles. “You told me to come.” I wave the room key around like a lit sparkler. “The Peninsula. Eight p.m. Remember?”
Lev frowns. I’m not sure if his annoyance is linked to my poor imitation of his accent or not. “I told the woman at the desk to—”
“There’s a man down there.”
His exhale is heavy. “I am sorry—”
“About pointing a gun at me?” Surprisingly, my voice stays steady. I have Caruso blood in me, I suppose.
“I was not expecting …” His voice trails, expression steeling for a few seconds.
I scrutinize him closer, noticing the bulge beneath his shirt for the first time. How pale he appears.
“What’s wrong?” Forgoing any attempt at self-preservation, I step closer. Reach out.
His hand closes around my wrist before I can make contact. “No, Carina,” he says sternly.
My chin lifts, and I hold his gaze defiantly.
He wants me to leave, and that’s a directive I wouldn’t need to be told twice from anyone else.
The man warning me away is undoubtedly the one whose direction you heed.
He’s not making a suggestion. Lev is surrounded by an air of authority and certainty and … something darker.
Yet I linger—for some absurd reason.
I glance quickly at the bed, then ask, “Were you shot?”
Amusement ghosts across his face, passing faster than a shadow. He wasn’t expecting that question. I’m proud of surprising him.
“No.”
My eyes refocus on the rectangular shape under his shirt, suspiciously shaped like a bandage. Something is wrong. It explains why he changed our plans at the last minute. Why he was on guard when I entered unexpectedly. Why all the casual ease from the library has disappeared.
When our gazes meet again, he’s studying me closely. Waiting for the next question. Maybe for some hysteria, the panic that appeared that night in the pool when I assumed he was an attacker.
I wait, but no fear appears. I wasn’t afraid when I saw the gun; I was shocked.
I’m not scared of Lev Sokolov. I should be—I definitely should be—but I’m not.
I yank my wrist free from the manacle of his grasp. “Let me see.”
“You want to see me with no shirt?”
I shoot him an unimpressed look, then reach for the hem. He doesn’t stop me. I’m worried he will, so I lift the fabric as fast as I can.
I wish I’d taken longer to steel myself.
There is a bandage taped across the left side of his ribs, the white gauze soaked with blood that’s dried on the surrounding skin.
I’m sure there’s some on his black T-shirt, and I wonder if this is why I’ve only seen him wear dark clothing.
The scars scattered across his chest all but confirm it.
They weren’t there last summer, and it feels like my windpipe is being squeezed as I picture those wounds being inflicted.
“Enough.” He steps away, tugging the shirt back down.
“Do you have more bandages?”
He exhales, then walks over toward the television.
This is one of Chicago’s nicest hotels, and the room reflects that.
Lev seems indifferent to the king-size bed, elegant furniture, or gilded mirrors.
His focus is on the open bottle of vodka set on the table.
The empty glass next to it has been refilled several times, based on how low the liquid level in the bottle is.
“You can’t drink that!” I blurt, striding toward him as he raises the bottle.
“Why not?”
“Because—you’re—that’s—” Since I seem incapable of forming a complete sentence, I grab the bottle from his grip. I only succeed because I have the element of surprise.
An unsettling combination of annoyance and amusement appears on Lev’s face. “Go home, Carina. I don’t feel like fucking right now.”
I snort, muttering, “Like you could,” then head for the bathroom, still carrying the vodka.
I figured holding the alcohol hostage would be the best way to hold his attention, and I’m right—he follows.
There’s a small pharmacy set out on the counter next to the sink, a dozen orange bottles lined up neatly.
Behind them sits a stack of bandages, wrapped in plastic.
I flip on the tap, turning the hot one a little more than the cold, and glance at him.
Lev has paused in the doorway, watching me fiddle with the faucets.
“Take your shirt off,” I tell him, starting to suds my hands.
Lev doesn’t listen. “You study music. Not medicine.”
I reach for the hung towel, which happens to be the softest, fluffiest bit of fabric I’ve ever touched. “You want me to leave? Take your shirt off so I can make sure you’re not about to bleed out as soon as I go.”
“Carina …” He says my name differently this time. Lower, like it’s a secret only we share. “I do not want you to leave. It is … better.”
“Shirt,” I state, his resistance only making me more determined.
Lev exhales, shakes his head, then finally complies.
His shirt falls to the spotless white tiles in a heap of black, exposing the bloody bandage again.
I swallow, wishing there were a subtle way to take a quick swig of vodka without him noticing.
This is … intense. I’m high on adrenaline maybe.
I’m absolutely reacting to his proximity, to the topography of firm flesh that looks nothing like the chest of any other guy I’ve met.
Of course, there’s also the injury that would send most people to the emergency room, not a suite in a four-star hotel.
Another deep breath, and then I reach out and pinch one corner of the bandage. I peel it away slowly, envisioning a sudden gush of blood pouring out. My stomach heaves, black dots creep into the periphery of my vision, and I reconsider reaching for the vodka.
It’s ugly underneath, inflamed pink skin, surrounded by streaks of crimson.
Unexpectedly, the cut is neatly stitched.
It wasn’t a gunshot. It looks like a knife wound, a straight slash that’s several inches long.
I turn away, tossing the soaked bandage in the trash, stealing a few seconds to hide my queasy expression from him.
“I was mugged,” Lev says in what is likely the most casual tone those three words have ever been spoken in.
I wash my hands again, then grab a fresh bandage. “I hope the police catch them.”
I look at him in time to catch the upward curve in one corner of his mouth.
He wasn’t mugged. He didn’t call the police. Someone tried to kill him, and I’d bet that same someone is dead or wishing they were dead right now.
But I’m happy to play ignorant. Not only to appease Lev. It’s best for both of us that he thinks I have no sense of what his world is like. I’m not sure I even do.
The only audible sound in the bathroom is the crinkle of plastic as I open the bandage. Either the surrounding rooms are unoccupied or this hotel has excellent insulation because we might as well be the only people in this building.
I apply the bandage carefully, then wipe the dried blood away with a dampened towel. His chest looks a lot better with the cut covered, but his face is still pale.
“What did the doctor say?” I ask, grabbing one of the pill bottles and squinting at the label. Cephalexin. I have no idea what that is.
“I am fine.”
I scoff. Glance up. “You’re not—”
Lev kisses me, and it’s the second time tonight I’ve been taken totally off guard. It’s nearly as shocking as him aiming a gun at me was.
This is our first kiss. Last Labor Day, in Lake Forest, we had sex, but our lips never touched. His mouth explored all over my body, but it stayed away from mine. I noticed, yet I was too overwhelmed by everything else taking place to really care.
I care now. I didn’t know what I was missing out on then.
He angles my chin left, hot tongue swiping the length of my lip. A moan slips out as his tongue invades my mouth.
I feel lightheaded. Dizzy. Unsteady. I have a hard time breathing around him, which sounds ridiculous, even in my own head. That’s supposed to be a basic instinct, only affected by suffocation.
Lev’s grip on my chin loosens, his hand skating down the center of my chest. I changed into a suede skirt after dinner, pairing it with a sweater and carefully applying lipstick.
I wanted to look more adult. When his hand slips under the skirt’s hem, lingering on my upper thigh, I’m grateful I picked this outfit.
I feel like I might collapse, feeling the rasp of the rough calluses on his fingers and palm rubbing against my skin.
“I could make you come, Carina.” His husky voice, the slight scrape of his accent? It’s mesmerizing.
So hypnotic that it takes me a few seconds to realize he heard me doubting his abilities earlier. Heat scorches my cheeks as he holds my gaze, a crooked smirk appearing. It’s the most animated expression I’ve ever seen him wear.
“Then do it,” I challenge.
Sex after a serious injury must be healthier than drinking vodka.
At least, that’s what I try to convince myself of as I reach for his waistband, knowing my motivations are purely selfish.