61. weird, world.

[i_sing_anyway]

Alyosha looked up from his newspaper, catching the telltale click-clack of her heels across the laminated tiles. Down the hall an alarm was beeping loudly; a nurse rushed past them pushing a crash cart. Elisabeta patted at her hair, smoothing back a few loose strands, and smiled. Jaswinder stood deferentially at her shoulder, the faithful shadow as always.

“Well?” he said blandly.

“I’m afraid Roland Baginski will be of no further use to us. Complications from his punctured lung, I believe. Though I did get confirmation that our targets were at the heart of this mess. Jaswinder?”

“Yes?”

“Please tell Director Franc to send a consolation basket to Mr. Baginski’s family. Let them know how terribly sorry we are about the loss. Come, Alyosha. We should return to the Branch and touch base with Dr. Tibu.”

The moment the car door was shut her calm mask slipped. She crossed her legs with a sharp huff of annoyance, propping her elbow against the door and pressing her palm to her cheek. “The imbecile!” she snapped, falling back into Ukrainian as her forehead furrowed. “If he had only reported his sighting the moment it happened, we may have tightened the net and caught them! He’s put God only knows how many people in harm’s way now. I only wish I could’ve had the time to properly punish him for his arrogance and stupidity. It was over too quickly, too easily, for him.”

“Deep breaths, Elisa,” Alyosha urged beside her as Jaswinder pulled them into the flow of traffic. He laid a warm hand on her knee. “We have closed the gap to within a few hours. Do not despair just yet.”

“I am not despairing, I am merely… Tired. Very tired.”

“It’s been days since you’ve last slept. I understand how important this is, but you must also look after yourself. You’ll be in no fit shape to accomplish anything if you continue to push yourself this hard. Candles cannot be burned from both ends and give off a reliable light for long.”

She laughed weakly. “Oh, Alyosha. I had somehow forgotten what a mother hen you can become in the field. Very well, perhaps something to eat and a nap will restore me. Jaswinder? Could you please drop us off at the hotel?”

“Us?” Alyosha repeated.

“Yes, us-you must take your own advice on occasion, darling. And then if you could please report in with Dr. Tibu, Jaswinder, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Of course, Elisabeta.”

There was this to be said, at least: Prague had some of the nicest hotels in the world. A quick phone call down to the front desk and a woman was at the door only minutes later, fresh warm towels and a bottle of chilled champagne on a cart. “I’ll draw that bath for you, miss,” the attendant said, moving with efficiency. “How hot would you like it?”

“Scalding. Hot enough to boil a lobster.”

In a place like this, the faucets weren’t crass enough to squeak. A second passed and the pattering of the running water filled the air. “Would you like any fragrances in the water, miss?”

“Ooh, yes, thank you. Surprise me.”

The woman bustled back out with the previous night’s towels, which she swiftly folded and placed on the bottom of the cart. She set the bucket of champagne on a side table and turned with a smile. “Will there be anything else at the moment, miss?”

“That will be all, thank you so much.”

“Very well, miss. Your lunch will be sent up as soon as you ring for it.”

“Thank you again.” She handed her a generous tip; the woman was professionally put together from head to toe, her uniform spotless, but she had noticed the weary lines around her eyes. Perhaps this was a second job, or she had picked up an extra shift. Perhaps she had children at home or an invalid parent to care for. Or perhaps she had simply had a rough encounter earlier with an entitled guest who had treated her poorly. Whatever the woman’s story, Elisabeta was mindful of how difficult others’ lives were, especially those who worked in the service industry. She was always careful to leave decent tips and smile kindly at such people. Even a small moment’s kindness could improve someone’s entire day.

The hot water had been spiced with a lavender salt. She could most certainly get used to such treatment; she would have to enjoy it while she could, because the chances were more than likely that come this time next week she’d be sleeping in a tent or musty room at a roadside motel. She relaxed under the fragrant, steaming suds and let the mixture soak into her tense muscles; she had a tendency to hold herself so rigid when she was under stress. She’d need to see a decent chiropractor when this was all said and done, to be properly realigned.

She was toweling herself dry when there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” she called, voice amplified by the acoustics of the marble bathroom.

“Have you ordered up lunch yet?” came Alyosha’s voice through the thick gold door.

Twisting her damp hair up into a clip, she pulled on the complimentary hotel robe and cinched the belt. Hurried to open the door with a grin, snatching up the bottle of champagne on the way. “I was minutes away from doing so,” she said, stepping aside and ushering him in with a sweep of her hand. “And join me for a glass of champagne while you’re at it.”

He looked at her for a moment, perhaps taken aback by her bare legs, messy hair, and the face still flushed brilliantly from the hot bath. In an instant she was once again the young woman he had first trained, all excitement and eager eyes and coltish limbs.

“It’s too early and there’s no call for champagne,” he began.

“Oh, posh!” she cut him off firmly. “We can never know how long our lives will be, Alyosha. It is our duty to enjoy as many moments as possible. Come, sit down, have a small glass if that assuages your ascetic guilt. Have you already ordered?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” She hurried over to the phone as he settled himself in one of the plush armchairs. They were upholstered in fabric that mimicked medieval tapestries, embroidered with figures of knights in battle, maidens in flowing gowns leading unicorns on golden chains, royal hunting parties riding through forests with falcons at their wrists and baying hounds weaving between their horses’ hooves. The bedding matched the chairs and the ostentatious wooden headboard was carved with delicate filigree that complimented the large wardrobe in the corner. The deep wine red of the walls was softened by the golden drapes that hung from floor to ceiling over the balconied windows and the golden cornices and doors. The room, like the rest of the hotel, spoke of money-and large volumes of it.

This was hardly the norm. Far more frequently their hotels had been ramshackle and threadbare. They had spent more nights in basements and barns than opulent five star luxury hotels. Such was the life of a field operative, even one as senior as he or as connected as she. In the years they had been partners, before she had risen to High Dracul in the wake of her father’s death, he could count the number of times they had stayed at such an extravagant place on both hands.

And the champagne, he discovered when he took a small sip, probably cost as much as a night in the room itself.

“…Yes, just send both orders up to my room.” Elisabeta was telling the front desk. “Thank you very much. Ah, Alyosha, isn’t this place wonderful? It’s such a shame that we cannot linger and treat this as a genuine holiday.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed her long, smooth, pale legs. In the light of the bedside lamp they had a golden glow and he had a hard time keeping his eyes off of them. “How do you like the champagne?”

“It’s incredible,” he said honestly. “The best I’ve ever had.”

“Yes. When I saw it on the menu I couldn’t resist. Misha and I shared a bottle of it on our honeymoon and I remembered it was exquisite.”

Alyosha stubbornly tamped down the flare of jealousy her casual comment had elicited. It was foolish of him to be jealous of a man who had been dead for years, who had only been married to Elisabeta for three. Mikhail had been a good man, loyal to the cause, and had treated his wife like a queen. He would no doubt have been as devoted a father as he had been a husband, and he had been a considerate friend. It was unfair of him to be angry with such a man, particularly now that he was gone. “To Mikhail,” he said, lifting his glass.

“Yes, to my Misha.”

He drank rather deeply, face carefully schooled.

“Isn’t it humbling?” Elisabeta said after a thoughtful pause. “How quickly time passes? How much can change-and how much stays the same?”

Alyosha thought of the first time he had seen her. The freckles across her cheeks. Her hair was almost to her waist back then and it had been slightly curled from an old perm. She used to wear a lot of yellow and blue and had preferred sandals; it was a stark contrast with the woman she was today, with her heels and blacks and reds, her shorter hair usually fixed up in a practical up-do. The Elisabeta he had been introduced to didn’t care about make-up; had been free with her laughter. She still laughed now, but it was modulated and rarer. She had more responsibilities to weigh upon her heart and shoulders, more claims on her time and affections. Maturity had sharpened her edges, as he always knew it would, and he admired the woman she had become just as much as he had loved the girl she had been.

He finished his glass and got up to refill it. “We are all of us different people today than we were yesterday, last month, last year.”

“Yes-there’s the philosopher I love so well,” she said with a smile.

He hated the frisson such a simple word sent through him; told himself sternly that it was just her manner of speaking, that there was no deeper meaning to it. There would always be something of a wild forest nymph to Elisabeta Volos, something mischievous and teasing. That had been the way of things between them since the start. He brought the bottle of champagne back with him and topped up her glass.

Her phone beeped. She leaned across the bed for it, her robe riding up over her thighs, and he stared resolutely at the floor until she had straightened. “It’s Tibu,” she said, flicking through the text. The man had never had the gift for brevity; his texts were often novellas in length and he would have rather died than indulge in acronyms or slipshod punctuation. Alyosha remembered his reports from the Branch 5 days; he had gotten into the habit of pushing them to the very bottom of the pile, knowing he could read the rest of the stack in the same time it would take to finish it. “He’s examined the bodies and is in agreement with the initial autopsies. Massive blunt force trauma and evidence of extreme pressure. The bruising on the last victim would correlate with handprints-if hands were typically half a metre wide, that is.”

“I saw pictures of the man,” Alyosha said, finishing his second glass in two gulps. “His head looked like a rugby ball. Nasty way to go.”

Elisabeta’s thumbs danced across the screen as she quickly composed her reply. “Ugh,” she groaned, turning off the phone completely and dropping it onto the bedside table with an unforgiving clatter. “If not for that Baginski bastard-”

“What was done is unchangeable,” Alyosha said firmly. “It would be pointless to dwell further on it. You don’t need to expend any more energy in that direction-besides, you are supposed to be relaxing now. You’ve been running on fumes for too long as it is.”

“Yes, I know,” she sighed, stretching her arms over her head before picking up her glass again. “…Do you remember the last time we were in Prague?”

“Hmm, yes,” he said, pouring himself more champagne. “About twelve years ago, wasn’t it? The week before Christmas.”

“And it snowed for five straight days. By the third day the roads were shut down and almost every shop in the city was closed. And I got terrible cabin fever, so we went for a walk. Found that little wine shop that was still stubbornly open and bought the bottle of merlot the owner recommended. Sat in the park freezing our fingers off and drank the whole bottle. That was the best merlot I’ve ever had.”

Her smile was wistful and it made him ache. He had kept the memory of that night close to his heart like a pearl; it had meant that much to him. To know she thought of it with comparable fondness only deepened the warm glow of nostalgia it evoked. The holiday season had been a dark time for him for many years-his mother had lost her fight with multiple sclerosis just before Christmas; and several years after that, on the anniversary of her death, his father decided to chase an entire bottle of Glenlivet with the barrel of his gun. But that year had been different because Elisabeta would not allow him to wallow and sulk. She had chivvied him out of their hotel, had forced a snowball down the collar of his coat, had sung drunken carols at him after they’d finished the wine. She’d made him laugh at a time when his heart was at its heaviest-and now every Christmas he remembered that evening rather than the others.

A polite knock at the door announced the arrival of their lunch; Elisabeta had the attendant roll the cart between them, gave him his tip, and ordered another bottle of champagne. Catching Alyosha’s eye, she simply cocked an eyebrow and smiled.

“We only live once,” she said, snapping out her napkin and spreading it over her lap. “You know I don’t believe in regrets.”

As they ate, she told him about Dušana’s last phone call. The small childhood dramas and delights, duly reported with all the seriousness of state secrets. All of the promises she had made to make up for everything she was missing.

“She knows,” he assured her. “That you are only gone because your work demands it. She understands that you are not neglecting her willfully. Dušana is a clever, observant little girl and she knows you love her very much.”

“You have no doubts about my abilities as a mother, then?” she said lightly, skewering another morsel on the prongs of her fork. “I do not know how many people have felt the pressing need to pass judgments over my parenting; over whether or not I am fit to be a mother…”

“Such people are fools,” he said dismissively, his knife screeching across his plate. “And as such their opinions are worthless. If they would only open their eyes they would see what a fine mother you are. They have no right to hold your past against you.”

Simply because she had been reckless in her youth; because she had liked parties as a teenager; because she had shown certain aptitudes in her examinations; because of the rumors that had been whispered with gleeful malice about their partnership and her whirlwind romance with Mikhail-none of that invalidated her worth or made her less qualified to be both a mother and the High Dracul. Alyosha knew so many of the mutterings had been sparked by pure jealousy: Elisabeta had a sterling record of success as an operative, had managed to bring the Council to heel following her father’s death, and had taken a firm grip of an organization that had been somewhat floundering in the months before her succession. Under her guidance the Order was once again the efficient, productive machine it had been in past generations. Every Branch was once again meeting its quotas. The number of Touched captured, treated, or destroyed had skyrocketed almost exponentially. And now, with the journal so close to being reclaimed, it almost seemed possible that there could a lasting victory within sight.

In his lifetime they could see an end of the Touched-and that was entirely due to Elisabeta’s commitment to the Order. Her passion; her intelligence; her sometimes ruthless pursuit of a lasting peace.

“Thank you, Alyosha,” she said quietly. “You’ve always had such faith in me. And I value it more than I can ever say.”

They finished their food, then the first bottle of champagne, and started on the second. It had been so long since he’d indulged and he was beginning to feel rather warm. He pulled off his jacket and folded it over the back of his chair, unknotted his tie and draped it beside it, and loosened the collar and sleeves of his shirt while Elisabeta massaged lotion onto her legs. Now that the meal was over he should really take his leave. Go back to his own room and let her get a couple hours of sleep while he went over everything Viktor Franc had recovered from Baginski’s terminal. There could be something in the files that would be useful in narrowing and focusing the search…

“Sometimes I look back and wonder what it would be like if I’d done things differently,” Elisabeta said quietly. “If I had said something else, if I had gone right instead of left, if I had acted on my initial impulse rather than second guess myself.”

“I’ve never known you to second guess,” he replied, thinking of all the times he had been forced to rush in after her unprepared and panicking, determined to give her back up as she threw herself headlong into the teeth of danger.

“Oh, but I have. Many times.”

“You?” he said. “With your determination to never regret?”

“Just because I refuse to regret doesn’t mean I haven’t wondered,” she clarified. “Sometimes my brain just imagines such scenarios. Like a scientist contemplating the existence of alternate universes. If I had done this one thing differently, perhaps everything would be different now. If I hadn’t taken that exact assignment, captured that particular Touched, if I had been just a little late to work that day. If my father hadn’t died on that day, if you had never trained me or been my mentor…”

A disquieting thought, to be sure. What would his life be like if she had never been a part of it? If he had not been called away on that muggy July day, he would have been in his office the day Ovidio Navarro’s men burst through the front door with their guns. If his father had not sunk so quickly into alcoholism, he never would have taken on his work load and distinguished himself so early-he never would have become the High Dracul’s closest confidante and right hand man, which in turn led to him being trusted with his only daughter’s tutelage.

There had been so many opportunities where everything could have gone so disastrously wrong; and while there had been plenty of terrible moments over the years he had always managed to be philosophic about them. Because he was still whole and healthy. He had avoided the pitfalls of addiction that had run so sinisterly throughout the generations of his family. He had made a significant difference with his work; had his commitment to the good fight to keep him proud and satisfied. And he had Elisabeta: the light that had guided him for almost twenty years.

The man he was today was the result of everything that had happened. And perhaps in another universe he was happier, or miserable, or dead-but that did not matter.

“I think,” he said slowly, aware that it took more concentration than it should for him to speak the words clearly-he really should stop drinking now-“that indulging in such hypothetical thoughts can be just as treacherous as regret. Just as bad as dwelling. You are right, Elisa, that we only have this very moment-this second-that we can hold onto with any certainty. That we can honestly call our own. The past is no longer ours, and the future can never be in our grasp. We have only the present. And so we must live in the present, and fully in it. Otherwise we will regret when the moment is gone and we did not seize it as we should have.”

“You have not always thought this way,” she said quietly, meaningfully. “You have not always seized every opportunity.”

His mouth had gone dry.

It was nine years ago. She had just received the call-her father was lying comatose in a hospital in Johannesburg. He had been on a routine visit of the city, meeting with the directors of the African Branches. They had been walking through a market on their way to a restaurant for a late lunch when a Touched assassin had struck, a Levitator. The Dracul, his bodyguard, and two directors were thrown fifty feet. They would have gone further had there not been a concrete wall in their path. The bodyguard and one of the directors had died on the scene; the second director was paralyzed from the neck down. And the High Dracul had suffered terrible cranial injuries. His brain was bleeding, his spine was fractured in multiple places, and he had been hooked up to life support machines. Every doctor agreed: the prognosis was dire. There was no hope for recovery and only one question remained-when would the exact time of death be?

Elisabeta had broken down as soon as she dropped the phone. While she sobbed he had arranged everything. Their flights, a hotel next to the hospital, the transport details back to the family plot outside of Kiev… And then he had held her until the fury of her tears was spent. Did his best to comfort and reassure her, sinking beneath the cold weight of his own grief. She had lost her father, he had lost his dearest friend, and they had both lost the man they had always looked to for guidance.

He had been murmuring senseless platitudes, mouth fumbling around empty words that should have rung with conviction and warmth, when she had straightened in his arms and kissed him. Still numb with the shock of the news, he didn’t immediately realize what was happening. Her hands had clutched at his shirt, lips warm and salty wet and demanding against his; and for a moment his arms tightened around her and he responded with his own heated hunger.

But then reason reclaimed control and he had wrenched himself away, every bit of him aching, mind spinning and heart reeling. He had struggled to compose himself, had been forced to turn away from her to catch his breath, and when he looked back he saw it all in her face: she thought he was rejecting her. That he was repelled by her act of need. And he, damned coward that he was, had been unable to speak out and tell her No, no, I could never reject you. Not you-you’re a part of me, as no other person could be. I pull away because if I don’t we won’t be able to stop; and I can’t do this. Not when you deserve more and better, not when you’ve just lost the most important thing in the world.

The moment had passed in misunderstood silence and that night they went to Johannesburg. He stood by her side while she held her father’s hand and nodded to the doctors, as the High Dracul died and the mantle fell upon her shoulders. He was at her right shoulder when the mourners filed past, and when the coffin was lowered into the ground. He summoned the Council for her, took the Directorship of Branch 1 at her request, and slowly, over the months, they found their way back to an easy, comfortable friendship. But it was never quite the same as it had been before-how could it be?

“A man can change his ways,” he replied in the present, voice hoarse.

She was silent for several beats. “…When Misha first asked me to marry him, I told him no.”

That surprised him, so much so that he was unable to hide it. “Why?” was all he could manage.

“Because I wasn’t sure if I really loved him. I wasn’t sure if he was what I truly wanted. He was a good man, and kind, and handsome, and I knew he would be a good husband to me. But…” She drained the last of the alcohol from her glass and set it on the bedside table, her hand just a shade unsteady. The base of the glass clinked loudly against the lacquered wood. Then she reached up and pulled the clip from her hair and started combing through the tangled half-dried curls with her fingers. “I knew that every day I was with him I’d be comparing him to someone else. And I was right-to the day he died that’s exactly what I did. And I used to feel so guilty about it. But he knew, or at least suspected, because towards the end, in one of his lucid moments, when I was sitting by his bed and reading him chapters of Anna Karenina-that was his favorite Tolstoy, you know-he looked up at me so wistfully. He asked me if he’d made me happy, and I told him, ‘Yes, you absolutely have.’ He asked me if I liked the gifts he’d given me, and I told him, ‘Yes, of course I liked them-and you gave me Dušana, the greatest gift of all.’ And he asked me if I loved him, and I told him, ‘Yes, I love you so much.’ And then he smiled and said, ‘But he could have made you happier. He could have given you wonderful gifts. And I think you will always love him more. And that’s good-because he will be there for you when I’m gone, and I want you to be happy, Lissa.’ It was one of the last things he said and it was the last gift he gave to me. Because I knew that he loved me regardless of my failings. And that I needn’t be ashamed that I was unable to give him my whole heart.”

He stared at her, and he wasn’t sure what his face was betraying. He’d had too much to drink. The room was too warm. The hectic pace of the past weeks had turned him upside down and he still hadn’t reacclimated to the old, familiar chaos of field work. Everything that had settled was suddenly up in the air again and he had absolutely no idea how he felt about that.

“I know that you love me, Alyosha,” Elisabeta said. “So why do you refuse to act on it? There’s nothing standing in your way. Not my father’s disapproval, nor my vows to my husband. They’re both dust in wooden boxes now. And we’re alive, flesh and blood, a man and a woman. Don’t tell me you think your age is an insurmountable problem.”

“I trained you,” he heard himself saying as if from afar. “You looked to me for guidance. You were my student-it would have been wrong.”

“I am not speaking of what was. It has been many, many years since we were only student and teacher. We are past all of that, don’t you think? You can’t take advantage of me, Alyosha. Not when I’m openly offering…”

“I should go,” he said, forcing himself to his feet. “I can’t-”

“Why?” she demanded, standing as well, eyes bright and face flushed. Her hair was disheveled and her robe askew, hands clenched into shivering fists. “Tell me, Alyosha. Convince me. Say exactly why you must make yourself live like a monk, why you won’t let yourself touch me, when I know you’ve always desired me. I was never a naïve and innocent girl, not even when we first met. I’ve always known it. I’ve always waited for you to act upon it. I’ve always wanted-”

He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her closer with such force that her hipbones crashed against his. “What do you want me to do?” he demanded, just shy of pleading. His stoic reserve had vanished and with it went years from his face. He felt stripped bare, more naked and vulnerable than he had ever allowed himself to be before her. There was no telling what she saw in his expression beyond his need and turmoil-he could only marvel at the way her lips had parted, throat fluttering with each uneven breath. How her cheeks had flushed a hectic red and her pale eyes kept glancing at his mouth. His jaw tightened, teeth clenching on all of the words he could not say, and he wished he had the courage to pull away and run for the door.

“Kiss me,” she said, fingers curling around the straps of his shoulder holster as she shifted against him.

He lifted one hand. Cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing the edge of her warm cheek as his fingertips slid through her hair. He tilted her face for a more perfect alignment as his lips came down upon hers. Started slowly, teasing the edge of her bottom lip, savoring a sensation he had often imagined but had never expected to experience. This had always been reserved for his cruelest dreams, the ones that inevitably struck on the longest nights and plagued him with miserable insomnia in the aftermath. Such fantasies had been the landmines of his ordered life, reminding him that he was no paragon, no moral beacon as he had always tried to be. Every time he woke feeling feverish, frustrated, gasping for air and reaching out with hands that had just been full of her curves, the guilt had eaten into his peace of mind. It was shameful that he lusted for her: his protégé, his superior, a beautiful woman almost a generation removed. It had felt like a betrayal of their partnership and her trust, and it had fed into a cycle of further abnegation.

But as Elisabeta’s mouth responded to his, as the kiss deepened into something far more passionate than chaste, as she pressed her body against his as if desperate to bridge the last centimeter separating them, there was no room for guilt. She had spoken only the truth: there was nothing shameful in letting this happen. Not with the people they were today, not with everything they had shared. If he had followed through on his desires twenty years ago, in the infancy of their relationship, perhaps he would have had a right to feel lecherous and immoral. But now? Nothing about this felt wrong; in fact, he hadn’t felt so right in years.

They broke apart for breath and she pressed her cheek to his, her softer skin no doubt prickling against his stubble. Her hands moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling slightly as she unfastened each one. “Make love to me,” she said, voice hot in his ear, the husky timbre of it sending a shiver down his back.

For one of the first times in his life, Alyosha Kovalenko didn’t give his brain time to think twice and weigh every option. With two steps he had pushed her back onto the bed. With one swift twist of his wrist he had unfastened the sash of her robe, spreading the white silk open over the duvet. She was lean and pale beneath, skin unmarked by the freckles that still occasionally blossomed across her nose and cheeks during the summer months. There was the scar from her appendectomy, and there was the scar from the stabbing in Cairo-it had been a miracle that the Touched they had been pursuing had not aimed true in the darkness, his knife glancing off a rib rather than striking her heart. The body stretched out beneath him perfectly reflected the woman it belonged to: there was nothing extraneous about it, all elegant lines and taut muscle. This was a body unafraid of physical labor and difficult work, a body that would respond to every demand placed upon it.

Her skin began to goosebump and her nipples were small dark peaks-from the cooler air or from his touch and appraisal? The auburn hair spread across the embroidered duvet and her wide blue eyes put him in mind of a Rossetti painting; a pity he had no skill with a paintbrush. This was a tableau worthy of fine art.

Impatient, she pushed herself up on her elbows, the opened robe sliding down from her shoulders. “You’re wearing too much clothing,” she complained, hooking her fingers under his belt.

“What would I ever do without you?” he said over the hiss of leather sliding through the belt loops.

“It’s a wonder you survived as long as you did without me,” she said pertly, pulling up the shirt that had been tucked into his waistband.

“Wait,” he said firmly, catching her hands in his. The way she looked up at him, an eyebrow arched and lips curved in a smile, clad only in white silk sleeves, was an image he wanted to savor. He bent to kiss her again until she fell back, drawing him with her. Feeling bold, he trailed similar kiss down her neck, between her small breasts, over the smooth expanse of her stomach. His hands slid over each thigh, pressing firmly against her legs. His mouth finally came to a stop in a spot that made her breath catch audibly in her throat and sent a wild and tremulous quiver coursing through her. No other power could compare to it. She was one of the most influential women in the world and he held her in thrall; his slightest movement could make her gasp or moan, writhe over the sheets and clutch at the pillows, come completely undone and melt bonelessly with a shudder and a cry…

“I used to think about you doing that to me,” she confessed faintly as he unbuttoned his pants, the sheen of sweat gilding her skin. She looked up at him through heavy-lidded lashes, wearing a contented smile. “Someone so eloquent, with hands like yours… Of course you would know… I always suspected your somber air was a cover; I knew there would be passionate fire beneath the mask.”

“I’m a man of very particular passions,” he said, stretching over her. “I don’t burn for the world entire.”

“Only for me?” she asked softly. “…Good, because I can be very jealous.”

“I remember,” he said. She was jealous in guarding her operatives, in managing the Order, in clinging to what was hers even at great costs. She had been jealous of their partnership, too, confronting anyone who had an ill word to say about it. Elisabeta was not a woman to cross, not lightly-not even with deliberate forethought. “Is this truly what you’ve wanted?”

She pressed her hand to his chest, fingertips tracing the red tattoo over his heart that lay beneath the fine silver hair. “Since the first week,” she said. “Every time I turned to a man for an evening’s distraction. Even with Misha.”

“Old man that I am?”

“Silver in your hair doesn’t make you old, nor the lines on your face. You’re Alyosha, and that is all that has ever mattered,” Elisabeta promised, caressing his face, brushing her lips across each cheek. “Besides: older men know what they’re doing.” She kissed him. Wrapped her arms around him as her tongue slid over his, as he slipped inside with a sure and forceful thrust.

He couldn’t be sure how long it lasted. It seemed as if they slipped into a liminal space. With the heavy drapes blocking out any glimpse of the sky, the bedside clock unheeded, phones turned off and responsibilities postponed, he was only aware of his body and hers. The natural rhythm they found so effortlessly. They already knew each other so thoroughly it took almost no time at all to ascertain the more intimate details. And after years of repression, he found the freedom of release intoxicating. Here was a drug he could become addicted to, just as his father was with his alcohol. It wasn’t a far off comparison: Elisabeta left him as dizzy and warm as the champagne, equally rubber limbed and relaxed, even as a cocktail of electrifying chemicals sparked and hummed through his veins.

Every pleasurable pulse made him wonder if this was a dream he was bound to wake up from; he’d had so many over the years that felt just as real and vivid. When her ruby nails bit into his shoulders his heart leaped, sure the small pain would bring him back to his senses; but she only re-angled her hips, knee pressed to his side, and wordlessly encouraged him to continue. And for all of his concern over his age or skill-it had been years since he’d given into any of these physical urges, after all-her reactions convinced him that he was not failing her as a lover. He knew Elisabeta could be a very believable actress when she wanted to be; but he also knew her tells. When her head fell back against the pillow, back arching as she shuddered beneath him, it was genuine. When he twisted his hips just so, and a low moan escaped her before she could snap her teeth shut on the honeyed sound, it was a visceral, utterly unconscious reaction. She was a leader who wore tailored business suits and carried a gun; but in this bed she was just a woman to his man.

It was much, much later when he slipped out of the bed, leaving her dozing, and turned on the shower. By the time he stepped back out, towel knotted around his hips, she was fully awake and staring at him with bright eyes. “No regrets?” he asked her quietly.

“None,” she said firmly with a smile. “You’re not going to play the bashful professor again, are you?”

He caught her by the arm and pulled her up for another forceful kiss. “Not unless you want me to,” he murmured.

“Good. Because I intend to make you give several repeat performances.”

“Later,” he promised, picking up his scattered clothes. “Right now, I think we should probably check in with the others.”

“I hardly slept a wink,” she pointed out. “Wasn’t that your initial reasoning for coming back here?”

He regarded her with an arched eyebrow. “I said you needed time to relax.”

“Fair enough-on that count I’m wonderfully relaxed,” she sighed, falling back against the sheets with a feline wriggle.

“Don’t,” he warned. “I know exactly what you’re doing-”

“Of course you do. You’re a clever man, and I’ve never kept secrets from you, darling.”

“Elisabeta.”

“Oh, very well,” she gave up. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower. Although…” She climbed out of the bed and grabbed his hand before he could pull on his pants. “I bet it would take me only half as long if you were there to wash my back.”

“You’re a minx,” he said as she drew him inexorably back toward the bathroom. “A temptress and a siren.”

“Believe me, Alyosha-I’ve heard them all. And I deny nothing.”