Page 10 of Brutal Secrets
He pulls me toward him, opening his coat and folding me, my beads, sequins, and thin jacket against the pine-scented warmth of his skin. I burrow into his side, nestling against his strength. I rub my forehead against the triangle of skin at his throat, and he goes still. I wait for a kiss, for something sexual, but the only thing moving is his heart, which thuds against his ribs and beats against my ear.
Reluctantly, I pull away and look out of the window. “It’s beautiful.”
“Better by night, when you can’t see the grime or the scars.”
I glance at him, and he lets his otherworldly blue eyes drift to my lips before they slide toward the window.
The car swings around the ring road, and the Kremlin’s turrets loom into view, spires blazing bright against the darkness. I feel transported in time.
“It’s like a fairy tale. Look at the castles, the towers, the houses of noblemen. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What kind of fairy tale, zolotaya? A Disney story where the woodland creatures bring you breakfast and everyone lives happily ever after?” Vadim asks.
“What other kind of fairy tale is there?”
He settles back against the seat, fingers tracing mine as he tightens his grasp on my hands, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he looks out of the window, at the high red walls and dark green towers of the Kremlin. “The real kind. We killed all the noblemen in Russia. If you’re looking for a fairy tale, we have only those where blood is spilled and there’s a steep price to be paid for everything you gain. In our stories, Cinderella’s sisters are tortured to death and witches’ houses run through the woods on chicken’s feet.”
I snort with laughter and bat his chest with my hand, but he doesn’t flirt back. He just keeps watching me with hooded eyes. “You’re just trying to scare me. You’ve no more seen a house balanced on bird’s feet than I’ve met a woodland animal that wants to have a chat while helping me out.”
“You Americans,” he sighs, gripping my hand again. “I’m just trying to point out that in the real fairy tales, it’s an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The price for the happiness has to be paid.”
“That’s a grim view of the world.”
“A realistic one, perhaps.”
I stare down at our clasped hands and stroke circles on his palm. I want to curl up against him, but he doesn’t look like he’d welcome the touch.
“You don’t have dreams? Nothing you’ve set your heart on?” I ask.
“I’ve willed things to happen. I mark my territory, watch my back, and defend what’s mine, but I don’t dream. Dreams are for fools.” He pulls my hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my fingers, sending a molten thread of heat between my legs. Every nerve ending in my body is attuned to the place where his lips touch my skin.
“What’s the difference? I dreamed of being up on that stage, and now I am.” My eyes fall to his mouth and I imagine kissing him, but he looks away, lowering our hands to my lap.
Vadim’s thumbs draw circles on my wrists, tracing my pulse. “But there was a price to be paid, wasn’t there? What was that I saw tonight? The price for fame?”
I sit up straight, pulling my hands out of his and shifting toward my side of the seat. As I look out the window, my back straightens. “I didn’t sleep my way to the top, if that’s what you’re implying.”
There’s a soft laugh in my ear as Vadim moves closer and pulls me into his arms. He catches my hair in his hand and draws it away from my ear, pressing a kiss right beneath it, and I can’t help the moan that escapes me.
“God, you smell like fucking springtime,” he murmurs against my neck.
Part of me wants to lie back against him and bare my neck to him like an offering, but the other part of me feels prickly and offended. I pull away and turn in his arms, looking up at him. His breath comes faster now, and the blue around his pupils has narrowed to a faint ring.
“Didn’t you want to help me tonight? Does everything have to be a transaction?” I stare up at him, waiting for his reply as the car pulls to a stop and idles at the side of an embankment.
Instead of responding, he leans forward to tap on the glass divider as he says something in Russian to the driver.
He opens the door, letting in an icy blast of air. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
Stepping out of the car, he reaches back to pull me into the snowy night. Soft flakes fall around us, their dance lit by the glint from the gold domes above us.
“Where are we?”
Vadim smiles. “Have you seen anything of Moscow?”
“I walked around Red Square this morning, but I didn’t go into St. Basil’s, and they were repairing Lenin. Is that right? Can you repair a dead body?” I walk beside him up the steps of a huge church by the silent waters of the Moscow River.
“I think you have to replace the formaldehyde and touch up the wax. You didn’t miss much. St. Basil’s is dark and poky inside.” Vadim’s lips curve up at the corners, and he holds out his arm so that he can help me up the slippery steps. “Lenin’s dead. If you make it back to Moscow for another concert, he’ll still be dead.”