Chapter 123 123

Chapter 123 123
I don’t like it.

I stop the car in front of a tall building painted in a soft baby blue and framed with white. “Oh my God,” Isla gasps. “This is better than pink.”

The valet greets us and helps unload our collection of baggage from the trunk. A bellboy loads it all onto a cart and assures me he’ll meet us upstairs, while the valet takes our car to park somewhere unseen.

Isla, Kinsley, and I ride the elevator to the top floor. Isla is as impressed by the old-timey bronzed grates that seal us in as she has been by every other detail since the second we touched down.

True to his word, the bellboy is waiting for us when we reach the top, along with a suited concierge. Both bow as we approach.

“Here you are, sir, madam, and miss,” the concierge says, in the unplaceable accented English of the Swiss. “I hope you will find your new home to your tastes.”

He opens the door with a flourish and gestures us inside.

I let my women go first. Kinsley and Isla walk in, their faces identical masks of amazement. The amount of work I’d put into securing this building all becomes worth it.

The walls ripple with swirling blue wallpaper framed by intricate crown molding. Wingback sofas with clawed feet perch in the living room on gleaming mahogany floors, surrounding a fireplace of soft white sandstone. In the kitchen, fixtures and details shine in a black metal that sparkles against the eggshell cabinetry. Tasteful oil paintings line the walls—landscapes, mostly, of places that look too serene to be real.

Isla doesn’t wait for permission. She just drops her drawing pad on the floor right where she was standing and takes off sprinting down the hall to explore the rooms. Kinsley meanders to the window and looks out at our view of the river winding past the buildings below. I tip the bellhop once he’s done unloading our luggage. He bows once more and leaves.

And then we’re alone.

It’s strange how it feels like so long since that was the case. When did she become so vital to me, that half a day without feeling her close is an eternity?

I eye her, though she’s pointedly ignoring me. She’s standing by the balcony in her light blue sweater and dark blue jeans, melting into the wallpaper behind her like she’s already part and parcel of this place. Her dark hair tumbles down her back in messy waves. Her eyelids are still puffy and her cheeks creased from where she slept on the plane. I want to smooth those lines out, one soft kiss at a time.

Gritting my teeth, I turn and take her bags into the master bedroom. When I return to the sitting room, she’s right where I left her. I join her there.

“There are no skyscrapers,” she murmurs, gazing out the window at what passes for a skyline here.

“Europe isn’t as fond of those as America is.”

“How come?”

“Too new. Too big. Too jarring. They prefer the old ways. I’m mostly inclined to agree.”

She nods distractedly and glances away again, as though she’s not really paying attention to my answer. When she glances at me, her expression is convoluted. Her face is normally an open book. Today, though, it’s written in a language I can’t understand.

“We’re going to be here for a long time, aren’t we?” she asks suddenly.

“It depends.”

Kinsley laughs bitterly. “I’m sure it does.” Her eyes drift back out to the river, glowing in the sunlight beneath us like the back of a snake. “When do you leave?”

I grimace. There’s that catch in her voice again, a harsh, sandpapery quality I don’t like. “End of the week.” I hesitate, then add, “I’ll check in when I can.”

“When you can, huh?” she says. “Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

“What are you trying to imply, Kinsley?” I growl. “That I’ll forget about the two of you the moment you’re out of sight?”

“I don’t care if you forget about me,” she answers coolly. “I care about what this will do to our daughter.”

“She’s prepared for this.”

“Oh, excuse me. Well, if you say she’s prepared, everything’s peachy then, isn’t it?”

Bratty, feisty, infuriating—and yet I still prefer this version of Kinsley to the quiet one. Even fighting with her is an improvement over silence. Because fighting means we’re both still clinging to the hope that we might somehow make it out of this alive and together. Silence means we’re giving up.

I’ve never been much of one for hope. That’s more Kinsley’s department.

But goddammit, I won’t let the silence win this time.

28

KINSLEY

All I want is to tell him that I see him. That I see him, the real him. I’ve tried to say it exactly like that before and it went terribly every time. If I tell him I see the scars he thinks he’s hiding from the world, he closes up. If I tell him the things that happened to him and in front of him are not his fault, he circles the wagons and shuts me out.

He turns and walks away from me. As far as the forty foot width of the room will allow. He stops at the opposite wall and keeps his back to me for several long seconds. He’s breathing deeply. I watch those broad shoulders of his rise and fall in time with my heartbeat.

“Daniil?”

He flinches at the sound of my voice. Then his hands curl into fists. Even from here, his rippling anger is palpable.

I cross the space between us and place my hand on his shoulder. I don’t even have time to put pressure on him before he turns back around, his face a mask of black anger. His eyes look like they’ve turned gray from fury.

“You don’t have a fucking clue.”

Everything about him right now makes me want to cry. Frustrated tears or sad tears, I’m not quite sure which. “No?” I challenge. “Then why don’t you clue me in? There’s something you’re not telling me, Daniil. I want to know what.”

“Careful what you wish for, princess,” he drawls.

“Consider me warned. Have you ever considered the possibility that if you tell me this big, scary secret of yours, then maybe, just maybe, it’ll lose its power? Whatever hold it has on you will be over and you can finally move on.”

“Move on?” he repeats, deadpan. His scowl turns into a sinister smile. “Sometimes, I forget what a naïve little fool you are.”

“Funny, I never forget what an asshole you are. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“For now.”

“Are you trying to build up suspense?” I ask. “Or am I supposed to guess? Okay, let’s see—did you cheat on a math test?”

He just stands there glowering at me. So I continue on my tirade, because it feels good to yell. It feels good to push back after a lifetime of pulling back.

“No? Then did you steal some kid’s ice cream cone and make him watch while you ate it?”