She was pretty sure that, on the outside, she sounded reasonably calm and normal. But on the inside, a high-pitched voice was screaming at her that she must have lost her mind. She never invited anyone to her home. Especially not men she barely knew. Underneath the desk, her hands fisted into her practical gray skirt, and she fought the urge to hyperventilate.
“What am I thinking?” she said in a determinedly bright tone. “You must have to go back to the monastery to have dinner there. How silly of me. Forget I even mentioned it.” She could feel a slow heat burn its way into her cheeks. “I’ll get right on this new list of things for you.” She grabbed the paper he’d given her and started typing madly, anything so she didn’t have to look at his face.
There was silence for a moment and she almost began to hope that he’d gone away as quietly as he always appeared.
“Actually,” he said in his slow, deep voice, “the only meals we all share are breakfast and lunch. Laypeople like me are free to do whatever they like once the early-afternoon meditation and chores are done. I usually eat dinner in the dining hall with the others, but I have not eaten Russian food in some time. I believe that to do so would be quite pleasant, if you are certain it would not be an imposition. Although I must warn you, I do not eat meat these days, as part of my Buddhist practice. But borscht would be lovely, if you are making that.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what was she going to do?
• • •
STUPID ox. Sun could not believe he had been foolish enough to accept Ciera’s offer of dinner. He must have lost his mind. He knew she did not mean anything by it; in truth, he could see that she regretted the invitation as soon as the words left her mouth. And yet he had still said yes, when it would have made much more sense to have refused. He was truly grateful for all of her help, and he had meant what he said about being homesick for a good Russian meal, but none of that explained why he had agreed to dine with her when he had absolutely no intention of becoming personally involved with anyone. Especially not now, under the current circumstances.
He was about to open his mouth to come up with some excuse—something that would no doubt both offend and relieve Ciera at the same time—when he remembered what Barbara had said about making a friend. Perhaps it was not exactly the worst idea in the world. Probably the second-worst, but not the worst.
After all, it was just one dinner. It meant nothing. Nothing at all.
CHAPTER 9
CIERA lifted the lid on the largest pot on the stove, fragrant steam wafting up to fill the air with the rich, earthy aroma of mushrooms and sour cream. She hoped that Gregori was okay with dairy products; she hadn’t thought to ask how strict a vegetarian he was. Still, she’d managed to make all the dishes without using meat. Hopefully, that would be good enough.
She gave a nervous glance around the apartment, most of which could be seen from where she was standing. The kitchen opened up into the living room space, neither of them large, and a short hallway led to the tiny blue-tiled bathroom that looked like it had never made it out of the seventies and the small bedroom whose only window faced onto the alley out back.
It wasn’t fancy, but she didn’t need much, and she would rather live in a hut that was all hers than a palace that belonged to someone else. Been there, done that, had the scars to prove it.
The living room was neat and clean, but that was about the best that could be said for it. She’d never really bothered to decorate; her energies went elsewhere. The square wooden table in the kitchen had been rescued from the curb, but with a pretty cloth over it and her two best almost-matching dishes, it looked reasonably fit for company.
She wasn’t sure if the same could be said for her. She’d come home and started cooking, then spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes trying to figure out what the hell you wore to dinner with a guy who wasn’t a date—wasn’t even potential for a future date, what with the “about to become a monk” thing, even if she had been interested, which she absolutely, positively wasn’t—but who still made a girl feel like she should at least make an effort, since he always looked so put together. Not that her wardrobe held all that many choices. Plain but professional clothes for work. Plain but casual jeans and tees and hoodies for the shelter and hanging around the house. Pajamas. She could rule out the last one, at least, but that didn’t really help.
Finally, she compromised on jeans and a simple black sweater, pulled her hair back into a French braid, and called it good. Or at least, as good as it was going to get. She picked up an ancient stub of eyeliner and put it back down again. The only problem with trying to hide out in the open was that, apparently, it didn’t give you much ammunition for the rare occasion you decided not to.
Ciera sighed. She didn’t really like makeup; almost had a phobia against it, really, after watching her mother use it for so many years to try and appear to be someone she wasn’t. And it wasn’t as though her lashes, naturally long and dark, needed mascara. Her cheeks were already faintly pink from the heat of the kitchen, and lipstick would only emphasize the width of her mouth. He was simply going to have to take her as she was.
She thought she was prepared when the knock on the door came, but she should have known better. Her heart raced into overdrive, imagining someone else on the other side of the metal door with its three locks and strong dead bolt. Sweat beaded the edge of her brow, and she had to wipe it away before looking out the peephole to see Gregori, as expected, precisely on time.
Ciera knew that most women wouldn’t be having a panic attack at the thought of being alone in their apartments with a gorgeous guy. But the truth was, she hadn’t ever had any guys here, unless she counted her elderly landlord, who came up every once in a while to argue with the stubborn plumbing in the bathroom.
You are not a vulnerable teenager anymore, she reminded herself. And Gregori was studying to be a Buddhist monk. She was pretty sure that meant he literally wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, she felt oddly safe with him, maybe because he was so good with the kids at the shelter. And she couldn’t spend the rest of her life hiding.
She took a deep breath and pulled herself together before opening the door to usher him in, but he still gave her a searching glance as he entered, although he clearly decided against saying anything, for which she was grateful.
“Hi,” she said. “Come on in. Dinner is pretty much ready.”
“It smells delicious,” he said, sniffing the air and smiling. “It reminds me of places I have not been for a very long time.” He put his hands together and gave a tiny bow. “Thank you for having me in your home. I am honored.”
“It isn’t much,” she said. “Mostly just a place to lay my head.”
Gregori wandered around the small living room. “You have more bookshelves than knickknacks. I like that.”
Ciera laughed. “Occupational hazard, I guess. Um, I’m afraid I don’t have any wine. I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I,” he said. “One of the rules of the monastery. I would love a cup of tea, if you have such a thing.”
She grinned at him, finally feeling a little more relaxed. “That I can do,” she said, and opened a cupboard in the kitchen that had a colorful mix of jars and boxes and tins full of tea. “I love a good cup of tea and a book on a Sunday morning, and I always like to be able to pick a variety that matches my mood and whatever I’m reading, so I have quite a few.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Gregori said with a glint in his eyes. He moved up behind her to look over her shoulder, and the warmth of his body seemed to reach out and enfold her like a comforting blanket. The sensation was unexpected and a little unsettling, but in a good way.
“What is for dinner?” he asked, his breath stirring the little hairs on her neck. “After all, one must pick the perfect accompaniment.”
Ciera was pretty sure he was laughing at her, but she didn’t mind. “We’re starting with borscht, as r
equested, and then I have a mushroom stroganoff and some syrniki for dessert—they’re like a cottage cheese–stuffed pancake, I guess, topped with jam.”
“Lovely.” Gregori sighed. “Like what I used to eat as a child. This is going to be such a treat.” He reached over her head and pulled down a small tin with a dragon on it. “Russian Caravan. One of my favorites. It tastes best when brewed in a proper samovar, of course, but I suspect a simple teapot will do.”
Ciera opened another cupboard, and this time he laughed out loud. “I see we share the same passion,” he said, gazing at the dozens of different teapots, all different sizes and shapes, from a tiny cast-iron tetsubin from Japan to a larger hand-painted porcelain teakettle she’d rescued from a secondhand store.
“They’re one of the few things I collect,” she admitted. “Besides books.” She pulled down one of her favorites, a well-used vintage English classic rendered less valuable by a chip in its lid. “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll make the tea. Then we can eat.”
“I can help,” Gregori said. “You need not treat me as an honored guest.”
“Ah, but you are one,” Ciera said, and realized to her surprise that she meant it.
• • •
GREGORI was surprised to discover how much he was enjoying the evening. He had expected it to be an obligation to suffer through, and instead it was filled with unexpected pleasures. Ciera’s meal, which she admitted she’d never attempted before, was more than passable, but mostly reminded him of days so long gone by that he had thought them lost to the mists of time. The tea was good, and the company better.
After the first few minutes, during which her tension was so palpable it might have been another person in the room, Ciera seemed to relax and showed herself to be not just bright and lovely—which he knew already—but also widely read and funny and very good company. He suspected that she had very little idea how much of herself she was revealing, here in this place where she felt safe. They talked about favorite authors, and art, and Russian composers as they listened to the Tchaikovsky she had playing in the background. Her hazel eyes glowed behind her glasses, and the few times she let down her guard enough to laugh out loud, it was like music in the tiny, bare apartment.
Part of him wondered what had happened to make her so guarded; the sensible bit reminded him that not only was it none of his business, but he was in no position to get involved with anyone else’s issues. Not to mention that he had plenty of secrets of his own.
Of course, in the way such things worked, as soon as he had the thought, Ciera said, “So were you born in Russia? You said you grew up on this kind of food, but you only have a slight accent. Are you first generation or second?”
He suppressed a snort while he tried to figure out how to answer that one. “I was born there,” he finally said. “But it has been a very long time since I have been back.”
“Do you have family there still?” she asked, pouring them both a little more tea.
“Not that I know of,” he said. “I have two half brothers, Alexei and Mikhail, but they mostly live in America too.”
“Oh,” Ciera said, looking a little wistful. “Brothers. That must be nice. Are you close?”
Sun peered into the depths of his cup, as if the dark liquid held some kind of answers. Finally, he said, with an honesty more accidental than intended, “I do not know. We used to be very close, but we have fallen out of touch. It is . . . complicated.”
Ciera reached out one hand as if she was going to touch his where it sat on the table, then pulled it back. “I’m sorry. That’s sad. I mean, it is great that you were close, but too bad you’re not anymore.”
Gregori shrugged. “As I said, it is complicated. Mikhail and I are working on it. Alexei, well, we are not quite sure where he is. I am certain he will be in touch eventually.” He tried to shift the attention away from himself. “What about you? Do you have family?”
“No,” she said, the word abrupt and solid, like a boulder dropped into a well.
When she didn’t elaborate, Gregori cocked an eyebrow in unspoken question.
Ciera sighed. “Okay, yes. Probably. That is, my parents are still alive, as far as I know, but I haven’t seen them in years, and I have no desire for that to change.” She gave him a wry smile, acknowledging the echo. “It’s complicated.”
“Family often is,” he agreed. “I myself have not seen either of my parents in longer than I can say and have lost track of them completely.”
“Are they still alive?”
“I hope so, but I do not know,” Gregori said, setting his cup down next to his empty plate. “I have been looking for my mother.”
“Really?” Ciera’s eyes brightened. “Does that have something to do with your unusual research at the library?”
This line of questioning was skirting uncomfortably close to the truth, but for some reason, Gregori did not want to lie to her. “It does, yes.”
She laughed. “So does that mean your mother is a legendary Mongolian shamaness named Iduyan?”
He nodded gravely. “Yes.”
Ciera laughed again. “I knew it.” She pushed her chair away from the table. “Ready for dessert?”
And any other topic of conversation. “That would be lovely,” he said. “Shall I tell you the story of the time my brother Alexei tried to make a chocolate soufflé? I should warn you, it is quite a horrible tale. It did not end well for the soufflé.”
• • •
AS Sun walked back to the monastery, the winter winds picked up enough to chill even him. He pulled his collar tight around his neck and thought that he should have ridden the Ducati, even if a motorcycle wasn’t the best form of transportation for midwinter in Minnesota. He had seen a few other hardy souls riding theirs, and his had advantages the average motorcycle did not, considering its origins as a magical steed. It was less likely to skid on an unexpected slick of ice or wallow as it pushed through snowy ruts. Plus, it always seemed to have an instinct for which route had the least traffic.
In truth, if he were being practical, he should ask the beast to transform itself again, into something more appropriate to the climate. If he really intended to stay. A nice, warm SUV, perhaps. But somehow, despite his willingness to walk away from every other facet of his past, Gregori could not bring himself to let go of the glossy red bike. He had ridden into too many adventures on her, his brothers by his side—Mikhail on his shining white Yamaha and Alexei astride his roaring black Harley.
It was even less suitable a vehicle for a monk than it was for the environment, but it held a piece of his heart nonetheless and, apparently, one he was not yet ready to relinquish.
It seemed strange that the cold should bother him when usually it did not. It certainly did not affect him as it did most others; apparently, losing his immortality had little effect on his endurance or strength. Finally, a mile or two into his journey, it occurred to him that it was less the actual cold than the contrast between the bitter chill of his lonely walk home and the warmth and comfort of Ciera’s apartment.
He had not expected to enjoy himself so much. It was, he thought, rather ironic that after all these years, he had met someone whose company he found so appealing at the time when he had finally decided to put such things aside. Still, he was well aware that for all the intimacy of their conversation, there was much he had left out. If omission was the same thing as lying, then he could never be truly honest with her. It was just as well there was no possibility of a deeper relationship.
If anything, the pleasantness of the evening and their unexpected connection simply made the unfortunate truth more clear. She was a quiet, reserved librarian and volunteer for the needy. He was a centuries-old former Rider whose closest friends were witches and whose past contained a level of violence and a wealth of secrets that one such as Ciera could never comprehend. Her world was impossibly far from his, and he wou
ld hate to have her look at him differently if she should ever learn what kind of man he truly was.
Not to mention the paranormal aspect of his life, which he could never even begin to explain, and his current untenable situation, which was as likely to leave him either insane or dead as not.
No, it would be better for both of them to nip this budding friendship—if such it was—before it could blossom into fruition. From now on, he would keep their interactions to a minimum. No more dinners, as enchanting a night as it had been. No more conversations about family. No more Ciera. It was for the best.
So why did that thought make the night seem even colder?
• • •
CIERA put away the last of the leftovers and washed the few dishes, then pulled the curtains closed against the dark night outside. She curled up on the couch with a book, relaxing back into her normal routine with a sigh of relief. But she couldn’t seem to settle.
She’d had mixed feelings when Gregori got up to leave when the evening was still relatively young. Curfew, he’d explained. Anyone staying at the monastery was expected to be in by ten at the latest. Besides, he had to be up for morning meditation at five thirty. She was both sorry to see him go—it really had been a pleasant evening—and fervently relieved to have her apartment back to herself.
But now that he was gone, the place seemed oddly empty. Ciera didn’t really understand it; he hadn’t belonged here, and yet it almost seemed as though he had. Maybe it was time for her to get a cat.
At least cats didn’t ask awkward questions. When she’d impulsively asked Gregori to dinner, she hadn’t even thought about making conversation. It had been a long time since her interactions with others had been anything more than superficial, and at work and the shelter, it was easy to keep silent and let others do most of the talking.
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