“This has nothing to do with contribution,” he said. “And there is nothing shameful about being unfamiliar with this part of the world.”
“Maybe not, but I feel as though you’re shouldering it all. Every little bit of hardship.”
“It is, as they say, all in a day’s work.”
“Ha.”
“Yes, I know. But it is true. Since I was twelve years old, I have spent almost every day doing something that brings me close to death. I have never been able to escape it. I am not sure I would know how. I am a survivor, Elena. That is what I do. What I am paid to do, only now it is for the benefit of others.”
“You help people,” she said. “With your detective agency. I think you would do that work for free.”
“It brings me joy,” he agreed.
“Purpose,” she said.
“Family,” he finished. “Friends, whom I do not need to hide from.”
“Sounds nice,” she said wistfully.
Uncertainty passed over Artur’s face. It was strange, out of character for a man who was always so quietly confident.
“You could come back with me,” he said finally, soft, slow. “When this is over. I am sure there would be a place for you at the agency.”
“Fighting crime?”
“Or doing what you love best. Healing people. The agency has resources. You would have the opportunity to use your gift and be among people who appreciate it. Dirk and Steele is not the Consortium. No exploitation. No fear. Just acceptance.”
It sounded wonderful. Too good to be true. But here was Artur, and he had lived that dream—he and others. Was it possible to do such a thing? To actually live the life she had dreamed of for so long?
“Amiri said I can never go home again. The Consortium would look for me there.”
“That is true.”
“But the Consortium kidnapped you, too. What about your home? It can’t possibly be safe for you, either.”
“No. I will also have to leave. The difference is that I will not be alone. Neither will you. We protect our own, Elena. I will protect you.”
“Even if I don’t join your agency?”
“Even so.” A simple promise, sweet and lovely.
Elena curled around Artur’s body. She touched his hand. He took off his gloves and tossed them on the bed. Pressed his fingertips, light as butterflies, on her face. He closed his eyes, and then Elena was with him in his head—easy as breathing—and she saw what he saw: the vastness of the past and present, streaming together as jeweled windows of memory—her memories, bright—and then his mouth touched her mouth, hot, and his hands moved, sliding warm and strong against her face into her hair until she stopped looking at herself and moved deeper into him, deep like his tongue, searching … searching soft and delicious, making her high on his taste, which was sweet as the slide of his skin beneath her hands, sweet as the memories she saw of a little kitchen filled with two women, older and young, white ducks scattered on aprons, wielding spoons and singing songs, dancing, dancing around a little boy with a thumb in his mouth, sucking—sucking on her lower lip—pressing her down upon the bed as he lay beside her, wrapping his leg around her hip to draw her near, close, tight—tight as his mother’s grip on his hand, tight as her grief—
“No,” he murmured, breaking their kiss. “No, please. Not that one.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was hard to keep her eyes open; her body felt heavy. She nuzzled his cheek, running her lips against his skin, drinking in his close strength, the sense of oneness that filled her heart every time she touched him. “But I’m only sorry because it upsets you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Artur. You can show me anything.”
“If I did not want you so badly, I would never risk sharing my memories. I would never risk seeing yours.”
She pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes—his old-soul eyes—soft with desire, hunger. She breathed, “Say it again.”
“I want you,” he whispered. “That first time we met I wanted you. I wanted to know you inside and out.”
She kissed him, smiling against his mouth. “You move fast. I think you accomplished the inside part within five minutes of our first encounter.”
“Oh, no.” He drew her even closer, running his hand down her side, cupping her, tracing the crease of her buttocks through her jeans. She shuddered. “You are more complex than five minutes. I think I will need a lifetime to know you.”
“Cocky man,” she said, breathless. “You think I’ll give you a lifetime?”
Artur thrust hard against her body, pushing just so. The sensation made her gasp. She sank her fingers into his shoulders and he kissed her, burying himself against her body as though their clothes would disappear by will alone, by desire, and it felt so good to have him on top of her, heavy with want, strong against her mouth. She reached down; there was not enough room between their bodies to touch him, and he said, “Not yet.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
He laughed, low, and she felt the sound move through her body like pleasure. He touched her face, tracing the fine lines with a reverence that stole her breath away.
“It has been a long time for me,” he murmured.
“Is that a warning or a promise?”
He laughed again, which was her intent. “You are so wicked, Elena.”
“Dangerous, too. Fiery.”
“Lovely,” he added.
Elena cradled his face in her hands, wondering just how much he could see, still afraid he would find something that disturbed him. Hypocritical, perhaps: she wanted Artur to feel comfortable sharing himself with her, and yet she was afraid of doing the same.
But I am here, she thought. I am here, touching him.
“Yes,” Artur whispered. “We are both here.”
“How deep does it go?” Elena asked him. “When we touch, when we don’t touch, how deep does this connection run?”
“It runs down to our souls,” Artur said. “We did something to each other when you healed me. We left holes, and then we filled them up.”
“With pieces of ourselves,” Elena said. “So is this real? What we—” She stopped, realizing the presumption of what she was about to say. Artur stroked her mouth with his thumb.
“Say it,” he said, so gentle.
“What we feel for each other,” she whispered. Not she or he, but both of them. A unity of emotion.
He smiled. “When you first saw me, you refused to look into my face. Why was that?”
“Oh.” Elena’s cheeks warmed even more. “Can’t you read my mind?”
“I am not a mind reader,” he said. “But when I touch you, I do sometimes hear your immediate thoughts.”
“I don’t hear yours,” she said.
“My gift,” he explained. “But do not change the subject.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Elena said. Then, softer, she admitted, “It was like looking at the sun.”
“Excuse me?”
“The reason I couldn’t look at you. You were the sun. Stare at it too long and you get burned. Too bright, too hot, too much of everything.” She took a deep breath. She suddenly could not look him in the eyes; it was that first moment all over again.
Artur touched her chin. He peered down into her face, silent for such a long time that she became nervous.
“I think the only thing you need to fear about the two of us is that I am not as good with words as you are.” He pressed their hands together, palm-to-palm, lacing their fingers tight. “We are real, Elena. I have always doubted my ability to remain sane—there is always so much unwanted in my head—but you … you I want there. I have never been able to say that about anyone.”
A lie. She remembered her first vision inside his head. His body curled around another, whispering, I love you. Artur must have heard her thoughts; a line formed between his eyes, which grew pained, sad.
“Her name is Tatyana,” he said. “We were together for a year. She was my … fir
st love. In more ways than one.”
“Oh,” Elena said. And then, a moment later, “Oh.”
“Yes.” He looked embarrassed. “You must understand, Elena … what you and I have should be impossible for me. I have never been able to stand the prolonged touch of anyone. Even with Tatyana it was difficult, but I loved her, and so I bore the discomfort.”
“What happened?” Elena wanted to know. Asking questions about Artur’s former girlfriend did not hurt her as she thought it would. Perhaps because he had his heart in his eyes—so fragile, those eyes—and his hand was warm and strong. Because now they had history, the two of them, the shared test of trials past and still to come, the promise of more—more danger, more harm—and still, still they were together, and Elena could not imagine anyplace else she wanted to be. She had always been a stable person. Despite the way she had been abandoned by her mother, her grandfather’s love and compassion had made the difference. She did not have hang-ups about people leaving her.
“I happened,” he said, when enough time had passed that she thought he would not answer. This time it was Artur who looked away, and Elena pushed close, seeking his eyes. He did not fight her.
“Artur,” she whispered.
“Elena.” He stopped, pained. “Elena, when I worked for the mob, I had to do many distasteful things. I did them because it was better than the street. To be without money or a home is a hard thing, but it is worse in Moscow. There are no safety nets, no helping hands. Everything you have must be fought for, to the disgrace of your dignity and pride. When Moscow is done with you, Elena, you have no pride. But I worked my way up. I got a job running errands for rich men, and later for their bosses, who were even wealthier. And then I stopped running errands, and I started carrying a gun.”
He paused, and Elena said, “You used that gun.”
“Yes. I used it many times. Sometimes to defend myself, sometimes not. My gift helped me avoid some trouble before it reached violence. Not always, though. Not enough. And then there came a day when the next bullet was suddenly too much, when I could no longer look in the mirror and not think that perhaps I should die as well. I decided to stop. My boss did not like that. I suppose he thought I would turn to the police or some nonsense. I would never have been so stupid. I just wanted out. I would have worked in the steel mills or the coal mines—anything but what I was doing. I was so stupid.” He blew out his breath. Closed his eyes. “They took mallets to Tatyana’s legs. Crushed the bone. She was a ballerina, Elena. The rising star of the Kirov. She loved to dance more than anything in the world, and they took that from her. I took that from her.”
“Oh,” she breathed, horrified. “Oh, Artur. You couldn’t have known—”
“Yes, I could have.” He looked at his hand. “All it would have taken is one touch. But I had stopped doing that. I was so tired of feeling the darkness in my head. Just a little break, I thought. No more testing the waters. And you see what happened, yes? I should never have gotten involved with her. My job, my circumstances … they were not safe.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Elena said softly.
“That is no excuse for endangering another. I promised myself I would never fall in love with another woman, would never take that same risk, and now here, look at me. I cannot help myself. I am such a fool.”
Elena did not take offense. “Did you just say you love me?”
The pain in his eyes did not ease. “What if I did?”
“Nothing,” she said, but with a faint smile that stole the bite from that word. His mouth twitched.
“Just nothing?”
“Well, maybe a little something. Just a little.”
“I can live with that,” he said. He kissed her, and his mouth was sweet; it soothed, lulled. Elena had never been kissed so long or with such gentle passion: the concentrated focus of a man who wanted nothing more than to touch her with his mouth, again and again and again. His touch relaxed her to the point of insensibility, until she could not move; she simply clung to his shoulders, soaking in the pleasure. He eventually pulled away, and Elena sighed.
“You are tired,” he said.
“I haven’t slept much since waking up in the facility,” she confessed, wondering if that was a subtle hint that she had not been doing enough to please him.
“It was not,” he said wryly. “Trust me, Elena. I have not felt this good in a very long time.”
“Yeah?” She moved her hips against him. Artur briefly closed his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“You should rest,” he whispered hoarsely. “You need to be strong, at your best.”
“At my best for what?” she asked archly. “Maybe you should get some sleep, too.”
“Do not worry, Elena. I am used to going without.”
“In more ways than one,” she teased. He groaned, burying his face in her neck.
“You are awful,” he said, and then, “Really. I have not slept in true safety since I was twelve years old.”
Elena frowned, all of her mirth fading away. That was a hell of a long time not to get a decent nap. She wondered how he could be so calm about it. “But you’ve been at Dirk and Steele. You’ve been safe there.”
He hesitated. “I have nightmares.”
He said it simply, like a child, except Elena suspected Artur’s nightmares were far more vivid than any child’s visions of the deep dark. She touched his face, tracing bone, smoothing back hair.
“Close your eyes,” she said. “Rest a little. I’ll keep the bad dreams away.”
“Elena,” he said, but she covered his mouth with her fingers. His lips moved against them, soft: a kiss to build a dream on.
“For me,” she whispered. “Let me do this for you, Artur.”
“I cannot,” he said, but his eyes were already drifting shut. She could see now what she had missed before, that she had mistaken his quiet coolness, his stoicism as something natural. And maybe it was, but right now it seemed like nothing more than a soul-deep weariness—years old—rocking down upon his shoulders like the nightmares he feared. Artur, whom she’d thought feared nothing.
“I fear losing you,” he said, and then: “That makes you uncomfortable to hear.”
“Because I know you mean it. And no one except my grandfather has ever felt that way about me.”
“I suspect you’re wrong about that.”
“No. People can’t fear losing what they don’t know. And I’ve … kept to myself. You know why.”
Artur sighed. “It is difficult to have secrets. They are so much like breathing—like heartbeats, because everyone has them. Inescapable, yes? Some are less harmful than others, but for each individual it is the same: he or she believes their secrets will destroy them. For some that is true. Usually, though, the fear is an illusion. One more waste of time.”
“Not for us.”
“No. Nor can we hide from what we do.”
Elena buried her head under Artur’s chin. “Rictor gave me the statistics. There may be a lot of us out there, keeping our kinds of secrets.”
“But there is one less now.” Artur kissed her. “And your secrets are safe with me.”
“And yours?” she asked. “Are you ever going to trust me to see the things you’re scared of?”
He hesitated. “I have not always been a good man. Even now I am not good, but I was worse before. I am afraid of how you will feel toward me when you see the things I have done.”
“You sound resigned to rejection.”
“How can I not? It is always a possibility.”
“Then you don’t know me as well as you think.” Elena closed her eyes. “Get some sleep, Artur.”
She felt his silence weigh upon her, but she refused to look at him. She was not angry—she was not even hurt—but she did feel stubborn. Stubborn to prove him wrong. Determined to face down her own prejudices and see this man for who he was. She knew the gentle side. She needed to see the violence, too. Not to judge, but to understand.
Artur’s arms tightened around her body, but he remained silent. After a time his breathing deepened. His body relaxed. Elena, comforted by his warmth, joined him in sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
She awakened alone. The bed felt cold. Artur stood by the window. The sky outside was dark, but he had the curtains pushed back. His shirt was off. He held the cell phone in one hand.
“You don’t look happy,” she said.
“The phone Mikhail gave me does not work. No service. I will have to wait until we reach a town before I can try again.”
“Were you trying to call your friends?”
“Yes. They need to know that the agency has been compromised. They can also help us when we reach Moscow.”
“Must be nice having friends like that. How did all of you meet?”
Artur placed the cell phone on the small table beneath the window and crawled back into bed with her. Elena ran her hands over his smooth, hard chest. Touching him felt so good.
“Dirk and Steele is currently run by two individuals, Roland Dirk and Yancy Steele. They are distantly related to the original founders, who are also powerful psychics. Over the years both of them have cultivated a vast network of contacts around the world, people who are paid to tell them when they hear rumors of anything … unusual. Individuals who can do remarkable things. It is not easy finding people this way—luck, more than anything—but it does pay off. And sometimes the precogs in the organization, the men and women who catch glimpses of the future, also see those we are meant to find. As they did with me.”
“They had a vision?”
“Nancy Dirk, the founder of the agency, knew where to find me and how. It was not easy. Tatyana was in the hospital and I was living on the streets again. Roland Dirk found me sleeping in an alley in the middle of a Moscow winter. He did not know quite what to make of me.”
“I bet you didn’t take much convincing.”
“You would be surprised. I thought it was a trick. Roland, however, is almost as stubborn as you. He refused to give up. It took a week of discussion, with me still living in that alley, before he convinced me of his honesty. That, and I finally became too desperate and hungry to care. Lucky, yes? He brought me to America, found me a home, paid me well—and all to do the kind of work I never dreamed was a possibility.”
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