She saw it as clear as day.
It didn’t matter how tired he was from days of a constant, unforgiving migraine that kept him awake, nothing would close his eyes if she was the thing standing in front of him. Almost like he was scared to miss something. Or maybe, like he was trying to soak up every second of them and their time together that he could. Did he imprint it all to his mind like she did to hers?
Better yet—would Vas keep his memories of them like she would always do? That wasn’t such an easy answer, but frankly, so few things about them were easy.
And I also never asked for that, Vera told herself in the back of the quiet car. She truly didn’t believe that easy love would feel the way hers did. It took effort—and yes, certainty—to choose to love a person, a man, like Vaslav Pashkov.
A man who rarely apologized even when he was wrong; the same person who kissed softly, killed quickly. He didn’t even try to teeter on the line between good and bad. The man knew which side he stood on, and had no issue with it. Unforgiving, unrepentant, and he needed to be loved in much the same way.
Or that’s what she told herself, anyhow.
“How do Americans say it,” Igor mused from the driver’s seat of the Mercedes SUV, although he didn’t pose it as a question. The first words he had spoken to her that day other than a polite hello and the confirmation that he could drive her to Noble Row. His sudden desire to chat made Vera pay attention.
Even if she was very confused.
“What?” she asked.
“The saying,” the man returned.
Vera was still drawing a blank. “I need more to go on.”
“The thoughts one, no?” Igor glanced into the rearview mirror to get Vera in his sights as he quirked his right eyebrow and added, “And the coin.”
Oh.
Finally, it clicked for Vera. Laughing a little, and earning a chuffed laugh from Igor, she asked, “Do you mean—a penny for your thoughts?”
Igor nodded, but his attention had already returned to the road ahead. “Yes, that one.”
“Is that even American?”
“Who’d know—that wasn’t the point.”
Right. Because he’d been asking—a penny for her thoughts.
“What changed?” Vera asked, and at the prompt of his questioning glance he tossed over his shoulder, she added, “No offense, but it’s not like you’ve been very talkative.”
Igor didn’t deny it. “Things often weigh on my mind, yes? It’s my personal deal with the devil, or so I was told.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, honestly surprised. “I thought maybe you were mad at me, too.”
“Who else am I mad at?”
Vera had better things to do than play word games on a long—and relatively boring—drive, so she went straight for the gut when she said, “Are you telling me that you’re not mad at Vaslav, then?”
Igor remained silent.
She had her answer.
“But,” the man manning the vehicle said, speaking up first, “that doesn’t also mean I am mad at you.”
Vera didn’t understand that at all. Why wouldn’t he be angry with her? She didn’t need Igor to say he cared for and looked after young Kiril for her to have already put those details together. And if not for what Vaslav had planned regarding the ownership of The Swan House, and planting a forged deed in the office of a dead man during an active investigation into said malfeasance, then Kiril wouldn’t have found himself in trouble.
She wasn’t dumb.
Vera connected the fucking dots.
“You thought I blamed you?” Igor asked when Vera’s silence in the front seat stretched on.
She shrugged as if it would help her explain, but the meek action didn’t even catch the man’s attention in the front seat. “I’ve been told I do that sometimes—take on faults that are not my own.”
Old habits were hard to break.
Igor’s tired sigh echoed from the front seat, and he visibly tightened his knuckles around the steering wheel until the leather squeaked. “For what it’s worth,” he told her, “very little about what has happened can be drawn back to you. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Kiril is fine.”
That was news to her.
“Define fine.”
She didn’t miss the roll of his eyes, but he answered nonetheless. “I took care of it.”
Of him. She heard what he didn’t say.
“Just because Vaslav refused to do something didn’t also mean I had to,” Igor said in a low mutter. “Mind you, don’t expect to see the kid hanging around like he used to. I’ve got plans for Kiril. Not one of them includes him going back to jail.”
“And you think he will,” Vera pressed. “Get himself in more trouble, I mean. If he’s around—”
Us, she almost said.
Igor interrupted before she could. “Things that are meant to happen will happen, Vera. That’s not really my point, yeah?”
“So, what is?”
“Vas,” the man said simply. “And Kiril, if I’m being fair. The kid’s never going to tell Vas no. It doesn’t even matter what he asked Kiril to do. The answer would unequivocally be yes.”
Vera connected with that statement better than Igor could possibly understand. Actually, maybe Igor was the only other soul on the earth that could relate to what it was like to be unable to refuse Vaslav, Each just had a different reason for why.
“Right now, Kiril can’t afford what saying yes might mean,” Igor said after a moment.
The rain the weatherman had predicted would follow Moscow for the better part of the weekend chose that very moment to start dumping down. She felt the car slowing down as the heavy splatters soaked the passenger window and rolled across the glass in rivulets. Despite the wild way Igor tended to drive, even he wasn’t willing to take the slushy, rural roads without a bit of extra caution in bad weather.
“But fuck,” the man in front swore, pulling Vera from her otherwise wandering thoughts, “the thing is, I don’t know why I even bother to try. Kiril would run his ass back to Dubna the second he could if Vas would have him.” He slapped his hands to the steering wheel. “Like I said—what’s gonna happen will happen.”
She heard life was more fun when people let it all happen that way, but now didn’t seem like the right time to point it out.
Igor settled back into silent driving while Vera opted to study the back of his bald head and tattooed neck. Barely visible, as only the beginnings of the red scratches could be seen over the rolled collar of his brown tweed jacket, she might not have asked about or noticed the claw marks had she not also been aware of Igor’s private business. Specifically, with Hannah.
“You’re not going to fuck my friend around, are you?” she asked Igor before losing her nerve. It had to be said, though.
Igor should know—somebody was looking out for Hannah. The girl had been through more than enough and deserved some happiness. Vera wasn’t picky about where her friend found said happiness as long as it didn’t eventually bring regret and pain.
Men were good at doing both.
Igor’s head tipped to the side, and he let out an awkward laugh when in the rearview mirror, he watched her pointed stare travel from his gaze to the marks on the back of his neck. She thought that was clear enough.