Chapter 120

“I kissed you because you saved my life,” she says, breaking the silence at last. “No one ever tried to save me before. Most people were just content to let me drown.”

Then she sets the brush down on the counter with a final clack, rises, and walks out of the room. I stand there for a long time after she’s gone, staring at that brush and the strands of her hair still trapped in it like ripped silk.

I hate this dance we’re trapped in. I can’t keep seeing the hope in her eyes when I know that it can only end in pain.

That’ll kill me faster than Gregor will.

25

KINSLEY

Hope is a stubborn bitch. Really hard to kill. You think you’ve snatched it from the sky, plucked out all its feathers, cut its throat. And then the moment your back is turned, it spreads its wings again. It takes flight. It sings.

Every time I think I’ve reached the end of my rope with Daniil, he gives me something—just one morsel—that keeps me going. A meaningful look. The tiniest smirk. And I take that little morsel and use it to sustain myself just a little longer.

I can still sense his presence around the house. He was pacing outside the window for a long time after our conversation in the bathroom. When I check again, he hasn’t stopped.

“Fine,” I mutter to myself. “You just stay out there and freeze to death. See if I care.”

Joke’s on me, though. Because I do care. Try as I might, I can’t make myself stop caring.

I glance at the door to the bedroom. Isla woke up half an hour ago and said she had a dream she wanted to draw. She’s been at it ever since with an almost religious zeal on her face. She probably won’t emerge for another hour at least.

Which means I’m here on my own, with nothing but my thoughts for company. That’s a scary concept. My thoughts haven’t done me very many favors as of late.

I make myself another cup of coffee, with sugar and cream. Then, without even thinking about it, I make a second cup of coffee. Black.

I put on my jacket and take both mugs outside, to where Daniil is—surprise, surprise—still pacing.

He comes to an abrupt stop when he sees me, like he’s only just now remembering that I exist. I wish it were that easy for me to forget about him.

“Here,” I say, offering him the mug of black coffee. “I thought you might be cold.”

He takes the mug and stares at the contents. “Is it poisoned?”

I almost smile. “Just enough to land you in the hospital. It won’t kill you, though. You can’t get off that easy.”

He takes a big sip and sighs. His eyes go unfocused again almost instantly, though. Wherever his head is, it isn’t here.

“What’s wrong with you?” I blurt. It’s a blunt question, but an honest one.

He chuckles sadly. “You want the long list or the short one?”

“At this point, I’ll take whatever list you’re willing to share with me.”

His eyes grow cautious and I feel myself recoiling. A question I’ve been pondering lately: at the end of the day, what’s the difference between hope and masochism? At least masochists know their pain is coming sooner or later. Hopers and dreamers never know anything for certain.

So maybe I shouldn’t have come out here at all. I shouldn’t have engaged him in conversation. It’s only going to end up hurting me. But I did it anyway. Because the pain feels worth it if it means I get to share something—anything—with him.

“So we’re leaving,” I say, breaking the silence because I know Daniil won’t. “Again. Where to this time? Shangri-La? Zimbabwe? Mars?”

“Switzerland.”

I frown. “Why Switzerland?”

“I went there once as a teenager. I enjoyed it. I thought you and Isla would, too.”

“Who’d you have to kill in Switzerland?”

He doesn’t laugh. “It was to see family. It was the only trip I ever took with my mother. She lived there for a while.”

“Your mother is Swiss?”

“Half. My grandfather was Russian. My grandmother was Swiss. I got the blue eyes from her.”

I smile. He’s actually leaning into the conversation. I’m aware he’s intentionally trying to keep it in safe, neutral territory, but I appreciate the effort all the same. Every tidbit I can get about his past feels like just another piece of the puzzle that is Daniil Vlasov. Maybe if I collect enough of them, he’ll start to make sense to me.

I wouldn’t need all of them. Just a few. Just a few more morsels to string myself along for a few more days.

“Did you get to meet her? Your grandmother, I mean.”

“That trip was the first and last time I saw her,” he tells me. “She was dying, and my mother wanted to visit her before she bit the dust.”

“Charming.”

He acknowledges that with only a detached smirk. “My mother and grandmother had been estranged for years. Pretty much from the moment she got involved with my father.”

“Ah. Grammy didn’t approve?”

“She wanted a good man for her daughter. My father didn’t exactly fit the bill.”

“That’s my hope for Isla, too. A good man.”

“Isla won’t need a man at all,” Daniil says fiercely. “Good, powerful, or otherwise.”

“She might not need one. But she might want one at some point,” I point out, as gently as possible. “Nobody is an island. We’re not meant to exist in isolation, Daniil. Every single one of us needs companionship. Help. Love.”

As I say it, it’s so easy to see the parts of him that are missing. He’s never had anyone to pick him up when he fell. He’s never had a person in his life who could look him in the eye and say, I’m here for you no matter what. And if you can’t handle the weight of your life right now, that’s okay. I’ll take some of the load.

“Jesus fucking—”

“What?” I interrupt. “Are you gonna call me a silly, naïve little idiot again? Because you’ve already done that. Are you gonna call me a pathetic romantic who still believes in fairytales? ‘Cause you’ve done that, too. And guess what: I’m still here, Mr. Monster. Wanna try again?”

Somehow, I’ve walked myself right up to him. I’m staring him in the face, and despite the height difference between us, this is the first time that I don’t feel quite so short in his presence.

Then, before I can figure out what my goal is here, I shove him as hard as I can in the chest. He’s not expecting it—I know that only because he actually stumbles backwards a few steps, nearly spilling his coffee in the process. He looks down at me in shock, like he can’t believe that actually just happened.

Then his eyes burn hot. He drops the mug in his hand to the ground, crosses the distance between us, snatches me up, pins me against the wall…

And kisses me.

It’s a kiss on fire. It’s a full-on, gritty, carnal, intense, passionate, desperate, fuck-me-out-here-in-the-woods kind of kiss. His tongue finds mine and we wind together. He paws at my hips and grinds himself into me. I’m trapped between the stone of his body and the actual stone of the mountainside, being crushed by both, and I’ve never felt more alive.

I comb my fingers through the hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer, because yes, fuck, this what we needed, catharsis, the next step, this is it—

And then he breaks away.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not this again.

He rests his forehead against mine. Our breath fogs the air together, a single cloud of exhaled longing.