SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  She deserves an apology for the way all of this went down.

  For months leading up to it, I’d been so consumed with making sure every detail was in place to make Vanya’s defection go as smoothly as possible, I didn’t even think about his family. Or, better said, I didn’t think about the repercussions for his family.

  I should have, because I know damn well if I hadn’t been the one helping Vanya get out, I would have been the one pounding on his door threatening him to pay for protection. And if he refused, I probably would have held his sister for ransom. But not the way Sobakin would. I’d never hurt her. She’d be more likely to get annoyed with me doting on her before she ever feared for her life.

  It’s funny to think, even if this had happened differently, we’d be in the same situation we are right now.

  The way I see it, no matter what twists and turns our lives took, Stasya was always meant to be by my side.

  I climb into bed and scoot over until I’m right behind her, then wrap an arm around her and bring her in so we’re as close as we can possibly be without being connected by my dick.

  As I drift off to sleep, the only thing I can think about is how long I’ve waited for this moment. I’ve waited years to kiss her and I’ll wait a hundred more if I have to. I want her to be with me because she wants to, not because she thinks I forced her.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’m disappointed when Stasya isn’t in my bed when I wake up. I was hoping for a few quiet minutes with her where we could let our guards down. Apologizing doesn’t come easy for me and that moment of naked vulnerability just before the sun comes up might help.

  But a perfect scenario isn’t in the cards today, so I get up, take a shower, and get dressed. When I enter the kitchen, I’m tucking my gun into the holster on my hip.

  “Good morning, Cowboy,” Stasya greets me dryly, eyeing my gun. She’s sitting on the cushion in the living room window, hands wrapped around a glass of tea. “Do you always carry that?”

  “No,” I tell her honestly, glancing at the Glock. “Sometimes I carry my Stechkin.” There’s no reason to lie since she’s going to be around both of them a lot.

  I blow out a stream of air as I reach for a tea glass. Time to suck up my pride. The sooner I apologize, the faster we can move forward.

  “Look, Stasya. I know the way I handled things weren’t ideal,” I begin, avoiding her eyes by pouring hot water into my glass. “but I hope you understand why I had to do it that way.”

  “Actually,” she interrupts, “I don’t understand why you had to scare the shit out of me, drug me, and throw me in a dark, cold room. If I were going to save you from being kidnapped, I would have said”—she leans over and sets her tea on the floor—“‘Kirya! I got to you just in time! There is group of bad men who want to hurt you in the car behind you.” She waves me toward her animatedly. “Please jump in, and I’ll take you somewhere safe.’”

  She has a point. A point that never crossed my mind for a minute because it wasn’t the original plan.

  I scoop a few teaspoons of loose leaves into the strainer and drop it into my glass. “I did what I did because I wasn’t sure if I was going to let you know if I had anything to do with it,” I admit quietly. “I was going to be the one to save you from the bad guys.”

  She calmly folds her hands together and sets them in her lap. “Excuse me?”

  My chest tightens, but I push back the uneasy embarrassment and speak louder. “Being your hero sounded like the better way to get you to accept my protection. But I can’t lie to you. I could never live with myself if I lost your trust.”

  She’s quiet. Probably thinking about what I’ve gotten her into. I don’t blame her for being angry. If she ever forgives me, it will be a miracle. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I can’t lie to her. She deserves so much more than that.

  “My life is dangerous, Stasya. The last thing I wanted to do was bring you into it.”

  “Then why did you?” she yells, jumping up. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Because I had no choice!” I slam a hand on the counter. “Once Sobakin set his sights on you, I had to do something. I knew you were more likely to accept protection if you trusted the person protecting you. You may not like me right now, but you trust me, yes?”

  She stares at me without answering. I take a deep breath and scrub my face, rubbing my eyes with my fingers.

  “You’ve always held a place in my heart, Stasya. I would never let anything happen to you. Do you believe that?”

  She lifts her glass off the floor and takes a sip. Her silence is killing me. And patience isn’t one of my virtues. “You promise never to lie to me?” she asks softly.

  “I promise.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to handle this life, Kirya. I’m afraid of cars. I’m afraid of guns. Afraid of…” Her voice trails off.

  Afraid of me.

  She doesn’t have to say it for me to understand. I know this isn’t the life she ever expected to have. But I’ll do everything in my power to make her comfortable.

  “You just need to get used to everything. Come on.” I wave her over to me, removing the pistol. “You’re going to need to be relaxed around guns.”

  She stares at me without moving. I laugh and return the gaze. If she thinks she can win this contest, she has no idea who she’s up against. I’ve stared down men ten times her size.

  It hasn’t even been thirty seconds when she breaks the eye contact with a huff. Scowling, she shuffles toward me, stopping to remove her glass from the podstakannik, the ornate silver glass holder, and set it in the sink.

  If this were anyone else, I’d be laughing my ass off at the childish reaction, but I don’t need her to be any more pissed at me than she already is, so I restrain myself.

  I hold the gun out to her. She hesitates before taking it from my hand. She swallows hard, holding it as far away from her body as she can.

  “Loosen up. Get a feel for it.”

  Damn. She looks super sexy gripping my automatic pistol, but her face is scrunched in fear.

  “I’ve got the feel. And now I’m okay.” She tries to hand it back, but I shake my head.

  “Hold it with two hands, like this.” I place her hands on the gun so she’s holding it correctly. Then I raise her arms until the barrel is at my temple. “Guns are nothing to be afraid of.” Her hands shake and the metal taps my skin. “It’s the person holding the gun.”

  The terror in her eyes tells me it’s time to stop. I’m supposed to be making her feel comfortable here.

  “Get dressed.” I take the gun and nod toward the hallway. “We’ll go to lunch.”

  “Is that code for murder?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “It’s not code for anything. I’m hungry.”

  She turns sideways, careful not to brush me as she passes.

  Maybe having her hold a gun to my head was too much for our first morning together.

  * * *

  “Where did you get that dress, Stasya?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off her as she enters the living room. I’m already at the door, ready to meet Slava, who’s waiting for us in the car.

  She pulls her coat on, quickly covering the shabby, gray fabric. Her eyes are focused on the floor as if embarrassed. “It was one of Dedushka’s old shirts,” she says quickly. “I kept some of his clothes and made things for me and Babushka. It was a way to keep him close to our hearts.”

  I open her jacket to get a better look. “You made this?”

  She nods.

  “It’s beautiful work.” I lift my eyes to hers before tugging the coat closed. I should back away, but I don’t. She smells like the French lavender soap I handpicked just for her. She watches intently as I fasten each button on her coat then grab a scarf from the rack next to the door and wrap it around her neck.

  Her cheeks flush. “Thank you.”

  “Do you enjoy making clothes or did you do it to save money?” I hold th
e door open, allowing her to exit first.

  “I love it. I have notebooks full of ideas. Drawings and measurements. But it’s hard to find fabric. That’s why I use old clothes. It feels good to take something no one else wants and make something beautiful out of it.”

  “That will change, Stasya. You’re far too talented to use old clothes.”

  “I don’t have time or money for—” she begins.

  I grab her wrist and spin her around. She braces herself on my chest, her breath speeding up.

  “You’re with me now. You have the time to do whatever you want.” My heart races, thinking about all the things I would give her if it made her happy. Her pulse pounds against my fingers. “I’ll get you fabric from anywhere in the world. You want lace from France or silk from Japan? It’s yours.”

  “It’s too much, Kirya,” she whispers without looking at me. “I couldn’t take it.”

  Releasing her wrist, I step back to give her space. “I told you before, everything I have is yours. That includes money, Anastasiya. If you want something, all you have to do is say the word.”

  She nods stiffly.

  Part of me hoped Stasya might forget about the drama of how she came to be with me, and slide right into my arms. Accepting her timeframe is one of the hardest things for me. I’m used to people doing what I want when I say to do it.

  But when you’re meant to be with someone forever, time is one thing we have in infinite amounts.

  11

  Kirill

  Before Stasya, I didn’t take much time to relax. Laying on the couch and watching a movie never seemed important when there’s so much work to be done outside of these apartment walls. I’ve spent more than ten years cultivating relationships and making a name for myself in the Moscow underworld.

  And yet, I’ve come to enjoy the quiet evenings with Stasya curled up at my side. Maybe I don’t have to spend all seven nights of the week working. Especially when the most important relationship to cultivate is the one right here.

  “What’s this?” Stasya eyes the white box next to the TV with confusion. She leans closer, examining the buttons.

  “It’s a VHS player,” I say, setting a bowl of popcorn on the table. “It plays movies.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really?”

  “You still love going to the cinema, yes?” I ask.

  It was always one of her favorite treats when we were young. She didn’t get to go often, but I still remember the time Mama asked her if she wanted to see a movie with us. I saw her in the hallway later that day, shining her scuffed boots. And when she came out to meet us, she had on her best dress. At the time, I thought she was crazy, but it’s sweet to think about now.

  “What kind of movies?” She’s just about to sit down when I remember I forgot to bring the drinks.

  I get up to press the play button on the VCR. “There’s a surprise for you in the refrigerator. Grab us two while I get the movie started.”

  She skips to the kitchen. I hear the audible gasp after she opens the door.

  “Pepsi Cola!” she squeals. “Six of them!”

  I laugh and settle back on the couch. She hasn’t stopped talking about Pepsi since she and Slava stopped to buy one from a street vendor last week. Seeing how little things, like having her favorite cola in the apartment, makes her happy brings warmth to my chest. I’m proud to be able to provide the things she wants and needs.

  “Thank you,” she gushes, as she rushes back to the couch with two cold, glass bottles. “You are the most thoughtful man!” She drops a kiss on my lips and hands me a drink before curling up next to me.

  “What are we watching?” she asks, wiggling closer to me. I put an arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s an American movie.” I scratch my head, trying to remember the name. “Back to the Future, I think.”

  Stasya looks puzzled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  I pinch her side and she laughs. “Let’s watch and find out.”

  Though the movie is good, my favorite part of the night is hearing Stasya laugh, watching her reactions, and having her in my arms.

  “It’s not a bad life, here with me, isn’t it?” I ask while the credits roll.

  “No. But sometimes I feel guilty being here.” She gestures to the empty Pepsi bottles on the table and the VHS player. “Living like this.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you feel guilty having things that other people don’t have? There are millions of people working day in and day out, staying away from trouble. Not out there breaking the law to get what they want.” She looks down as if she’s insulting me.

  “Is that how you see me, Stasya? As someone who laughs when I see my comrades standing in line for bread? Do you think I enjoy seeing people suffer under a government who takes so much more than they give?”

  She looks around my apartment. “I’m not saying you like it, but you’re living the high life of the nomenklatura, not the life of your ‘comrades.’” She curls her fingers into air quotes on the last word.

  “I chose the path I did because I saw injustice and I didn’t want to live under a system that oppresses its people and tells us it’s for our own good. I want to be someone who incites change. If I have to break the law to do something about the inequalities across our country, I will. The people who are shaking things up to get freedom for all, are the ones who will go down in history.”

  “You think you will be in future history books?” she asks. “Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Gorbachev—Antonov.”

  “I have big goals, Stasya. Big goals.”

  * * *

  Our bedroom routine has been the same every night since she arrived. She starts in her own bed and sneaks into mine sometime during the night. I’m not sure why she doesn’t just get in my bed from the start, but I’m not complaining, since I’ve never slept as good as I do when she’s in my arms.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she whispers as she climbs into my bed, startling me out of a light sleep.

  “Get some rest, Stasya.” I close my eyes and yawn. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

  “Kirya!” She elbows me.

  My eyes pop open. “Geez!” I say, grabbing her arm and holding it down. “Yes, you can ask me a question. Ask me a million questions.”

  “Do you really think I belong to you?”

  The question seems to be out of left field, but my answer will always be the same.

  “Yes.”

  Her body stiffens and I feel anger heating up her skin. “You think I’m your property? Just because my father is an ignorant idiot?”

  “I never said you were my property.”

  With an exasperated huff, she turns her body to face me. “You just said—”

  “You asked if you belonged to me, and the answer is yes. You’ve been mine for years.” I continue quickly before she flies off the handle. “Haven’t you realized by now that I don’t want to control you, Stasya? You are not a prisoner here. You’re here because I can give you a better life than you ever dreamed of having.”

  “So, you think I belong to you because you give me things?” Her eyes are hard, but she’s still in my bed. I don’t blame her for venting her anger. If that’s what she needs to do so she can move past this, I’ll take whatever she has for me.

  “No. It’s all completely separate. I give you things to show that I can provide for you. Whether you realize it or not, I’ve always provided for you. I’ve always protected you.”

  “I do realize it. I’m not ungrateful.” She looks away.

  I place my palm on her cheek and bring her face to mine. “I’ve always wanted to give you everything, to make you happy however I was able. When I say you belong to me, it has nothing to do with money or power. I own your heart and soul. Someday you’ll see the difference.”

  She wiggles out of my grasp and slides out of bed. “Maybe I will. Maybe someday I’ll feel like any of this was a choice.”

  “I’m doing
the best I can for you based on the choice your brother made, Stasya. In gaining freedom for himself, he turned his family into hostages.”

  She doesn’t turn around, just slips out the door and shuffles to her room—or the couch—wherever the fuck she went.

  I punch the pillow she’d been resting on, then grab it and squeeze it.

  Why must I be blamed for Vanya’s selfishness? He’s the one who made the decision to go without her. She doesn’t even know I had anything to do with it. And technically, the only reason I even got involved was because he trusted me. My negotiation and connections to get him out of the country helped as well.

  The fact is: Leaving her behind was Vanya’s decision. I didn’t threaten him to go. I just helped.

  I’m trying to do what I can to help her in a shitty situation, and I get anger and attitude.

  Fuck it.

  It’s time to show her how her brother lives, so she stops blaming me for trying to give her the best life I can.

  I jump out of bed and rush to the living room where I left my briefcase. Hastily, not caring if I rip the pages, I pull out the latest edition of The Hockey Paper, a magazine that devoted an entire issue to Vanya. There are multiple photos of his new apartment—on the top floor in a brand-new, high-rise that overlooks the Detroit River. He sits on a black leather couch, playing video games hooked up to a TV larger than any Russian has ever seen. There’s another photo of him in the gorgeous red Corvette he drives to work, which is ridiculous and showy, since the arena is two blocks from his building.

  Let her see how he lives and how he talks to the media. Let her see how he’s having the best season any rookie has had in twenty years. Then, maybe it will sink in that her loving brother never mentioned taking her with him. He never mentioned sending her over after he was in America. He hasn’t even tried to call her.