My apologies for the delay — pre-birthday weekend festivities with my family ate up more time than I'd originally anticipated. My university's spring break starts Friday, so the next update will definitely be on time!

A note on this chapter: there is material that pushes the 'T' rating I've given this story. If that's something you shouldn't or do not wish to read, I recommend skipping the gift-giving scene and going to the final line break. (You'll see what I mean.)

At one point that night, the sixth, she surfaced from sleep long enough to feel Dimitri get into bed behind her. His hand hesitated over her, like he was unsure if he was allowed to touch, and when she didn't roll into his arms like she usually did, his hand dropped to the bed and he turned away from her.

She was too tired to cry about it.

On the seventh, Epiphany came roaring in like a bat out of hell, leaving Rose to only wonder if Russians ever got tired of cooking and baking and feasting.

(Probably not. There seemed to be nothing else to do in the winter besides complain and get drunk without all one's friends.)

There'd been a small gift exchange on New Year's — everyone had chipped in to give Rose an electric blanket with a handwritten note from Viktoria teasing her about how cold she complained about being all the time — but the big deal Rose was used to at the end of December came on Epiphany, a week into January, when the Russian Orthodox calendar declared the day Christmas.

("We grew up giving gifts on New Year's," Karolina explained the night before Epiphany, her voice straining in odd places from the exertion she poured into the dough she was kneading. "The little ones know about your Western Christmas, though, so our family has shifted.")

Gifts had been hard — Rose wasn't the type to get creative about what people wanted, so she struggled for two weeks before giving up and settling on scarves for everyone, volleying back a tease about her wanting to spread the warmth after the blanket she'd gotten.

Her own haul wasn't bad either. The kids had created a storybook of sorts, crayon and colored pencil drawings of her fighting Strigoi and being friends with the Queen, not to mention a couple scenes of her in Baia with them, at dinner and walking them to school with Alex when it'd been warmer. Olena and Yeva had knitted her a forest green sweater and a pair of matching socks, as per the tradition that Dimitri had said a few days prior would include her this year. Which made Rose wonder when exactly the two older women had made not only her set but nine others as well, given how often they were out in town or at friends' houses socializing.

From Karolina and Alex came a set of beautifully illustrated Russian-English dictionaries ("For you, but also the kids when you start lessons with them in January"); Sonya gave her a surprisingly nice dark brown leather-bound journal ("You're always writing on your laptop, I thought a change in medium would be nice"); Viktoria didn't bother hiding her manic grin when Rose unwrapped a bottle of Russian vodka with a scrawled-on sticky note attached that Dimitri later translated as "tomorrow — 0930;" and a book from Paul, who insisted she open it last, explaining that he had to read it for school this coming semester, so he was taking her down with him.

(It was an English copy of Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev. She eyed it and set it down on the small pile of gifts with a shake of her head. Paul had a penchant for giving people shit, just like she did, and the gift seemed to be no exception to that rule.)

Dimitri, who she'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor next to, leaned in to whisper in her ear that his gift was coming later.

"Same to you, comrade," she whispered back, igniting a fire in his eyes he had to tamp down almost immediately when Viktoria called him to attention.

"I think your sister's taking me shopping tomorrow," Rose muttered to Dimitri later that night, both on Tuesday dish duty. Everyone had cleared out after very helpfully stacking all the dishes in two big piles on the counter. Sonya had taken over putting leftovers away, shooing her mother to the living room to rest after a full day of cooking, but she hadn't lingered.

"What makes you say that?"

Rose snorted, handing him a soaped up and scrubbed off plate. "She stares at my jeans like they're a personal affront to her sensibilities." Hot water scalded her hands as she dunked another dirty plate in the half-filled sink, bubbles clinging to her forearm as she went at the thick ceramic with a worn out sponge. "I mean, you saw the dress she put me in for New Year's."

"I did," he said casually, like he hadn't almost literally ripped it off her with his bare hands.

"You sure about that?" she asked, flicking water at him with a flirty smile instead of giving the plate. Soapy drops hit him in the face, momentarily surprising him before he recovered and cupped water from his half of the sink and splashed it up at her, his own devilish grin lighting up his face. He'd underestimated the physics though, and her upper arm got drenched in the process, her long sleeve shirt soaking through instantly. Her jaw dropped.

"You did not," she breathed, eyes wide with mock horror. His grin stretched further in response and she dropped the plate and launched into a full-out soap-water attack on him, laughing and twisting in the small space against the sink, doing her best to get him wetter than her despite the foot difference in their height.

She called a truce when he trapped her against the counter, hips pressing hers tight into the off-white tile. His hands gripped the lip of the sink easily and when she bucked back to move, he chuckled and pushed into her harder, his chest warm against hers. An ache flared up between her legs and if she hadn't been so set on winning, she would've explored it further.

"Admit defeat, Rose," Dimitri murmured against her temple when she tried twisting again. "You know I've got you."

Her hair stuck to her face in wet, stringy clumps. Most of her shirt — a light grey color — was now see-through. She shifted as best she could to look at him, drenched like she was.

"I never admit defeat," she said.

His hands found her hips, fingers sliding just inside the front of her jeans and brushing the waistband of her panties, sending a shiver through her. "You certainly did when I pulled that dress off you the other night."

"You got rid of it fast," she said like her reaction should've been obvious. "I figured you liked it."

"I loved it," he corrected. "But I thought it would've looked better on the floor, and I was right."

Arrogance was rare for him, but with the way his tone dripped with it, she blew past aroused and straight into fuck me now territory in a single breath. It caught her off guard, and the tiny voice that said this was taking three steps in the opposite direction of ending things had found a megaphone at some point, suddenly drowning out her need to push his hands farther down her pants. Her head dropped forward as she took a deep breath, trying to push past how dizzy he made her, and she twisted one last time, successfully sipping out of his grip. Coldness seeped in, the water finally cooling to the point of being gross.

Most of the dishes Dimitri had dried off were wet again — Like you, the rebellious side of her whispered — and the counters and floor around the sink were a disaster. Not looking at him, she reached for a dry towel in a drawer by the sink and handed it to him. "We should get this cleaned up," she said after clearing her throat.

Dimitri took her weird turn in stride, and after the lights on the tree were turned off and the kids had been calmed down enough to go to bed, he sent her upstairs, needing to put together the first part of his gift in secret.

When he finally came up a little while later, she was sprawled out on the bed in sweatpants and an old gym shirt from St. Vladimir's, mindlessly checking the news back home on her social media feeds. He wordlessly passed her a mug and spoon he brought with him, and she sat up to take his offerings, eyes narrowing when she glanced inside the mug.

"What's this?"

"Hot chocolate," he said, changing into a t-shirt.

"This is pudding."

He laughed softly, sitting opposite her in the center of the bed. "It's not pudding, I promise."

"If it requires a spoon, it's pudding," she said, brandishing the utensil at him.

"Come here," he groaned affectionately, and the playful exasperation in his voice warmed her chest. He tugged on her ankle; she untangled her legs, draping them over his knees. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, taking the mug and spoon from her as she moved closer.

She didn't mention how earlier, before dinner, she'd taken a shower so she could have a few minutes of privacy to let herself drown in the exhilaration and anticipation of getting a gift so meaningful he didn't want the rest of his family to see the exchange. It dissolved into a ten minute crying jag when a burst of unidentifiable nervous excitement from Lissa across the bond pushed her over the edge.

"And even if you're not," he continued, like he'd heard her thoughts, "You're here in this moment with me and I'm grateful for that. You've been distant the past few days."

"I know," she said. The lamp on the bedside table behind him, warm and muted, cast shadows across his face.

"Here." He dipped the spoon through the creme and thick chocolate and held it up for her. "America's great, but Russia does this better."

She kept her gaze locked with his when she took the bite. It was warm and thick, but not at all like pudding — hands down, no questions about it, this was the best chocolate dessert she'd ever had — and her eyes rolled into the back of her head when she finally swallowed, sitting back in bliss.

You're going to miss this.

Another four steps backward. Could you break up with someone you weren't really dating?

He had an eyebrow raised when she came back to herself, licking her lips in anticipation of another bite. "Thoughts?"

"You guys win this one," she said and he laughed, taking a bite himself before scooping another for her again. "I'm serious. What's in that?"

"Chocolate."

She moaned softly when she swallowed, shaking her head at him. "You think you're funny."

"I do." The spoon clinked against the mug. "I'm not telling you, by the way. Can't go sharing all my secrets with you right away."

"I swear, you take the whole tall, dark, and mysterious thing a little too seriously. Did you invent the trope?"

He laughed again, both at her words and the enthusiasm with which she took the spoon and mug when he offered it to her. "Last I checked, my name and picture are on the Wikipedia page."

Watching him take the bite off the spoon from her, she was struck with the thought that it would be so, so easy to fall in love with Dimitri Belikov.

Why did that thought not scare her as much as it should have?

He let her have the last bite, a tiny smear of chocolate catching on the corner of her mouth. He reached up and wiped it off, her lips parting to kiss the chocolate off the pad of his thumb. She watched with smug satisfaction as his breathing stopped when she sucked his finger into her mouth. His fingers curled against her jaw and a shiver ran through her.

She released his thumb. "I have a gift for you."

"So you said."

He set the mug and spoon on his bedside table with slightly trembling hands, and she kept eye contact as long as she could when she laid back and stretched off the side of the bed to reach under for the present she'd been hiding for the past two weeks. Her shirt slid up her stomach in the process; she could feel his gaze burning her exposed skin.

"All your Westerns are in Russian," she said, handing the wrapped package over. He started dismantling the snowflaked paper with the kind of care reserved for baptizing someone. "So I'm banking on you not having read any of these."

Four Western novels, all in English, slid out into his hands. He stared at them in wonder. "I, um." He cleared his throat. "Two of these are new. I've read the other two. Not in English, though. I . . . I lost them a year ago. Lost most of my collection, actually."

"Is that why books keep showing up in the mail every other day?"

He laughed, mostly to himself. "They're cheap this time of year." The wondrous look moved up to her face. "Thank you, Rose." He set them down next to the mug and spoon, then reached into the small drawer in the top of the bedside table, setting a small box in her hands.

It was slim and long, maybe an inch thick and wrapped in unassuming green paper. She slid her finger along the edges where they were untaped, unwilling to destroy how carefully he'd wrapped the gift. When the paper was off, she saw it was a jewelry box, white coated cardboard giving nothing away. She gave him one last glance, a nervous smile on her face before opening it.

Inside lay a necklace. Her heart stopped as she took it in, tracing the thin burnished red-gold chain down to the small charm at the bottom, an intricately shaped rose no bigger than the tip of her small finger. It was romantic and intimate, the kind of gift that one gave on major anniversaries or to a lifelong partner.

Her throat tightened as she fingered the charm. "I usually hate rose stuff," she said softly, eyes fixed on the necklace. It looked expensive. She silently hoped he didn't spend a lot of money on it. Most of his paychecks went to his family and she didn't want to take away from that.

"Usually?"

"Yeah, usually." She delicately picked the necklace up. It swung softly when she dropped the box next to them, the charm glinting in the low light. "This is my only exception. Thank you," she said, meeting his gaze. He was looking at her like she'd hung the stars and had graciously decided to offer him a hand so he could join her in the clouds. Kind of like love, she thought, not as shocked by the thought as she should have been. She offered the necklace toward him. "Put it on?"

"Of course," he murmured, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist as he took the chain. She pushed up to fully sit in his lap, wanting him close and ignoring the voice that said Don't, this is too close.

She pulled her hair up and he blindly closed the clasp behind her neck, his breath hitching when it slid down to lay just above the top of her breasts. He ran his finger down the chain and hooked it around the bottom, swallowing the charm into his fist for a moment, laying claim to her and her heart.

His touch was molten fire, and it set her heart sprinting through her chest; his tenderness had her holding her breath as she tried to hold off tears. Never before had anybody treated her with such reverence, had touched her and held her like she was water slipping through their fingers.

He let go of the necklace and skimmed his hand down the center of her chest, resting over her heart and pushing one of her breasts up in the process. A dull throb beat steadily somewhere deep inside her, making her desperate for his hands to keep moving lower.

This wasn't the fast, heated sex a week prior, when champagne and the crushing, wide open field of possibilities offered by a new year had driven them together. This was real — no amount of adrenaline-induced thrills or kills could brighten the colors in her world the way his touch did.

She closed the last inch between them to brush her lips against his, a feather light promise of her feelings. The hand on her ribcage tightened, and she wrapped her fingers through his, helping him push, cup, grasp her breast tight until the heat between her legs turned molten.

She squeezed his hand, her head falling forward to his shoulder. His grip on her lower back was the only thing keeping her grounded as her mind spun with need, thoughts flying through free fall chanting stay, stay, stay. It didn't seem possible that her need to melt through his skin and take up residence inside of him was a real feeling . . . but she did want that, and finally she found what scared her.

Vulnerability was not a color she'd ever worn well before meeting him.

She turned her head, pressing her face into his neck, and gasped, wet and hot, when the hand on her back slid down to her ass, pulling her as close as physically possible. Her sweatpants felt too restricting, her shirt too in the way, so she reached behind her for the hem and tugged at it impatiently, giving up after her momentary struggle so he could do it for her. She stared into his eyes as the shirt dropped somewhere over the side of the bed, and she could only tremble under his gaze, too overcome to keep herself together.

Awe. Devotion. Want. Adoration.

Love.

He unhooked her bra, movements whispering across her skin, and she could have sworn she felt him write something on her back with the tip of a finger. Her head swam with delirium; he could've traced her name and she wouldn't have recognized it.

The precipice was long gone. She was falling, and instead of searching for a way out like she always did, she let herself crash into him. For the first time in her life, she trusted someone else to catch her.

She leaned on his patience, reciprocating everything she got, and lost herself in the rhythm they made. Her nails dug into his skin, her cries broke against his neck. All she could do was hang on for her life, the strength of his body beautifully counterpointing her liquid, useless limbs.

It was making love, the thing people went to war for and erected statues to.

And finally — eventually — when she came, on his lap and tucked safe inside his arms, her world exploded into a supernova, a dizzying array of dazzling, sparkling lights, and she found that she didn't mind the cliché because it was true.

On the eighth, she woke up curled against him. He clutched her tight to him, his arm wrapped around her front and his fingers splayed against her necklace. She stayed in bed, drifting in and out of sleep until he woke up, and with a brush of his lips against her temple, the only following sound in the room was her breathy sigh when he slipped down between her thighs.

"What did my thermals ever do to you?" Rose asked, holding up the latest shirt Viktoria had thrown at her. It was satiny and probably cut down farther than Rose would have liked.

"Nothing," Viktoria replied as she flicked through articles of clothing on the rack. "But you can't go to Temno wearing Eddie Bauer. It's basically a crime against humanity."

She sounded like she'd been reading up on American fashion blogs. "Temno?" Rose asked instead, making a bad attempt at replicating the way Viktoria slurred the letters into one syllable.

"It's a club," Viktoria said nonchalantly and something icy pricked at Rose. A legitimate club or the kind that Rose's peers gossiped about? She made a mental note to look up the name. It sounded like the kind of thing that had a meaning behind it.

In front of her, Viktoria was still doing her best to appear inconspicuously at ease; she was failing miserably.

"Oh," Rose said, suddenly understanding the purpose of her Epiphany shopping spree.

Viktoria paused and gave her an assessing look. Rose caught sight of the girl's hands frozen above the rack and tried not to think about how a very masculine version of them had worshipped her the night before. "How liberal are you, exactly?" Viktoria asked.

"Um." Really not a question I get asked. "Pretty, I guess? I'm all for Moroi using offensive magic, if that's what you mean."

"How liberal are you on dhampir issues?"

What was this, twenty questions on her politics? "I think the age decree needs to be reversed because sixteen is too young to be pushed into the field." It occurred to her somewhere in the back of her mind that her objectivity in the assignment could be compromised if she let on how she felt about the very issue she was studying. She didn't want Viktoria to suddenly change her opinion on the topic, not when the other girl was hinting at something much larger.

"I think the current discussion on how to increase guardian numbers is generating a lot of good ideas," Rose settled on. That was nice and down the middle, right? "I think dhampirs need more representation. The Guardian Council is good and all, but the Royal Council still has a lot of say in matters that affect our people, and the Guardian Council really only focuses on guardian problems, not dhampir problems. Why?"

"What's your stance on blood whores?"

Well that went zero to sixty real quick.

"What do you mean?"

"The stigma, the reputation we have. Where do you stand on it?"

Rose had never felt more out of depth in a conversation, nor so at risk of saying something that could offend someone who she had come to like a great deal in the past few weeks. Because Dimitri was so important to her, it was important to Rose that she have the acceptance of his entire family, too.

"I think it's unfounded for the most part," Rose said, choosing each word more carefully than Lissa did talking points in a speech. "The stereotype that blood whores are out on street corners seems to be a gross exaggeration, from what I've seen at least. My mom left me to be raised by the Academy system, so I have great respect for women like your mother because I know she sacrificed a lot to raise you guys." Rose relaxed a little, feeling more at ease since it appeared Viktoria was taking her opinions well. "I think, on the whole, people judge what they don't understand, and a lot of the judgments stem from Moroi more than dhampirs anyway, so it's probably just generations of jealous Moroi wives stirring up shit."

Viktoria laughed. "Doesn't do much for feminism," she said, "as right as you may be about jealousy." She began going through the clothes in front of her again, though much slower than the breakneck speed she was at earlier. "What would you say if I told you I was a blood whore? Like, the old-school kind."

"You mean you—" Rose stopped, trying to keep her eyes bugging out of her head. "I'm sorry, that was probably rude of me."

"It wasn't." Viktoria pulled out a drapey button down, held it up in the air against Rose, and nodded, setting it atop the pile in Rose's arms. "I've had worse reactions. But yeah, I am. I used to be embarrassed about it. My mother was like that, yes? I was young when my father stopped showing up — maybe four or so — but I was old enough to remember the bites on her neck. My sisters and I grew up promising we'd never end up like that."

"But you did," Rose said.

Viktoria looked thoughtful, pausing on a sleeveless shirt that had Paris / New York / Milan scripted across the front. "We all did. Karo only did it once, the actual feeding part. She didn't like it. I think she was more curious than anything. All of us grow up curious, you know? It's so rarely talked about that it's like being fourteen and stealing alcohol from your parents. A dangerous, thrilling excitement." She was only 21 but to Rose, she looked so much older, reminiscing over some past innocent version of herself. "I'm not sure about Sonya or the frequency, but I know she's on this abstinence kick right now. Something about church and cleansing her soul. I don't really pay attention when the God talk starts."

"Neither do I," Rose said. Viktoria gave a brief smile before sliding back into her thoughts.

"And Dimitri doesn't sleep with Moroi, so we don't worry about him."

"Why not?" Rose asked, also going for casual and also failing really hard.

"They can't keep up." Viktoria's eyes shone with mirth. "He was talking to Karo about it once and I overheard. He said it's like holding a twig — afraid he might break them by accident, if they don't stab him to death with their hipbones first. Dhampir women tend to be thicker, more cushioned. And most have gone through some kind of training in school, so they've got the physicality to match."

Images of both New Year's and the previous night flashed through Rose's mind. Yeah, she could see where he was coming from. Sex with him was as much of a workout as her old cardio routine. She couldn't imagine a Moroi girl trying to match his pace.

Viktoria laughed and snapped her fingers in front of Rose's face. "I'm happy that you two are happy, but I don't need you turning into a puddle of goo on me in public."

"Sorry," Rose said, shaking her head to drag herself away from the memories. "We were talking about you."

"We were," Viktoria said. She didn't seem so far away anymore. "Anyway, I was sixteen the first time I let a guy bite me. Both of my best friends had already lost their virginities and I was so desperate to be like them. I cornered a boy in my math class who checked me out all the time. I thought I was being so old and adult that I didn't care that he didn't bother trying to make me come." Something flashed across her face, like she was internally chiding her younger self. "I got hooked, though. My father's an Ivashkov. I grew up genetically predisposed to addiction in a country that has some of the highest rates of alcoholism and teenage suicide in the world. Expecting anything different would've been stupid."

A beat in which Rose's eyes darted to Viktoria's neck, hidden mostly by her now pink hair. "I don't know what to say," Rose said. It was a lot to take in. She filed the My father's an Ivashkov thing away for later.

"There's nothing to say." Viktoria shrugged. "I could be addicted to pills or coke. Blood can be replenished, skin healed. The only thing I'm ruining is my reputation, but that's only among people I don't give a shit about. I can still be a good mother to Alexei. I know it kills my brother because he was the unlucky one of us who got a front row seat to my mother's abuse, and now, to watch his little sister potentially fall down the same path. . . . My sisters can't judge, not when they've done the same thing themselves. My mother doesn't say anything. I know she knows, but . . ."

"It's hard to let go of," Rose said, thinking back to the two years she'd let Lissa feed from her and the endorphin rush she once got to look forward to twice a week. The jealousy when they first got back to St. Vladimir's and Lissa went back to the feeders. She'd let Jesse Zeklos bite her once, on a couch in her dorm, blindly jerking him off afterwards so he'd leave quicker so she could feel like shit for slipping. There'd been a couple close calls with Adrian, but she was able to restrain herself at the last minute. She wondered if Dimitri suspected anything with the way she stopped breathing in anticipation whenever his hands went anywhere near her neck. "Nothing comes close to comparing. And it's not just one-and-done. The first one hooks you in and the need hits you every time you end up back in that same spot." The familiar itch of wanting the bite creeped in, taking over every thought. She'd once described the feeling to Adrian as ants crawling up her bones. He'd replied that what she felt was anxiety. She still didn't know if it was the good or bad kind of anxiety.

Viktoria's face was frozen in shock, like Rose had just admitted to being a Strigoi in disguise. "You've done it?" she asked. Her voice was breathless with the excitement of meeting someone similar.

"Yeah," Rose said. "When Li—The Queen and I ran away, I hadn't thought about her needing blood. I just wanted to her to safety and I would figure everything out later. Two years, every Monday and Thursday."

"Now I don't know what to say," Viktoria said. "I thought you might've . . . I don't know what the English word is right now. Anyway, I could see it on your face when I was talking about. There's a longing that never quite leaves you."

"Yeah." Rose's voice cracked. Things were silent for a moment as Viktoria pretended to stare at the shirt in front of her.

"So, um, Temno," Viktoria started.

"I still want to go," Rose said quickly, despite her unease at the thought of what could happen in places like she was talking about. No matter how much she unconsciously craved another bite, lifelong doctrine about blood whores going to dens for sex and bites and how wrong the whole thing was swirled in the forefront of her thoughts. Even still: "It would help me with my work assignment, regardless of what I've done or what I think."

Viktoria nodded slowly. "I feel like I'm leading a cokehead to a crackhouse."

Rose winced at the wording. There had to be a better, less offensive metaphor but . . . there wasn't, the more she thought about it. From what she'd heard over the years, a Moroi bite was equivalent to having an orgasm while high on morphine, so Viktoria's comment wasn't too far of a stretch.

Was she an addict? Probably. Was she going to admit it to herself? Probably not. It'd been long enough since her last bite that she'd say she had fully quit if anyone asked, but Dimitri's unknowing brush against her throat a week ago had stirred up old feelings that hadn't quite gone away just yet.

Her brain hurt. She shook her head, as if pushing her thoughts to the side. She'd worry about them later.

"I also don't want to screw up anything between you and my brother," Viktoria added.

Don't mention how you've been crying every time you're alone because being an adult and putting your career first sucks.

"There's—" She wasn't going to lie. She was sure they'd been quiet last night, but it probably wasn't that far of a leap as to what happened since Dimitri had said he'd give her his gift later. The necklace burned against her skin under her shirt and scarf. "I don't know. It's complicated right now."

"How so?" Viktoria asked, clearly happy to be talking about anything but herself and blood whoreism.

"We—I mean, we're into each other. There's feelings. Anyone can see it, I know that. But we haven't really talked about what we are. It's like really intense Netflix and chill, without the Netflix."

"He's smiling a lot more," Viktoria said, brushing past the reference she didn't understand. "I mean, on the rare occasions he does smile, it's genuine. Trust me, he used to be King of the Grumps. Lots of storming out on conversations, always took teasing personally. A year or two ago, Sonya compared him to our father to his face during an argument and he snapped. It was ugly. Nobody got hurt or anything, but we were legitimately scared someone was going to. Mama kicked him out of the house for a few days. She said she didn't recognize her own son and she was ashamed she'd raised such a poor excuse for a man." Viktoria gave Rose a look that said the latter was a savior. "You've calmed him down. I've never seen my house so peaceful in my life, I swear."

Rose swallowed. She'd caught on to the fact that Dimitri was known for sad, broken moods that only swung deep into depression or anger and never anything higher than quiet despair that grayed out city blocks, but the idea that he used to get violent was jarring, though not wholly unexpected for someone who'd beat up their own father as a teenager.

Tears started coming on hot and fast before she could say anything in reply, threatening to spill over and really ruin everything. Viktoria, momentarily stunned by her reaction, was quick with a hug. "Rose, what's wrong?"

Pulling away, Rose wiped her eyes with the cashmere scarf Abe had given her a few days prior. "I—God, I feel so awful."

"What? Why?"

"Because!" Rose threw her free hand up in the air, not registering the pain when it smacked against the hangers on the rack next to her on its way back to her side. "I can't. I have to end things. Can you break up with someone you're kind of not really dating?"

Viktoria shook her head, extracting a small pack of tissues from her purse and pulling one out for Rose. "I have no clue. It does sound messy. Why do you have to end things?"

"Because fucking Marie Conta and her stupid Royal bullshit and her emails about professionalism!" Catching the Viktoria's confusion, Rose clarified. "I'm not supposed to be too involved with you guys. I'm here for work. I'm working, all day, every day. Getting involved with someone close to what I'm here for is the quickest way for all of my findings to get thrown out the window under the reasoning that I can't possibly know what I'm talking about because my objectivity has been clouded. I've been threatened with being removed from the project if the project leader thinks I'm defensive or too subjective for her tastes." She spat out every word, dirt in her mouth. Tears still streamed down her face. "Like I can't be friends with you guys and wish I had your mom for my mom and fucking love the greatest person I've ever met and still report on things with complete objectivity."

Viktoria's eyes were wide and Rose wondered what she'd just said. "What?"

"Nothing," Viktoria said. She squeezed Rose's hand, linking their fingers together for a moment. "Your situation seems really complicated and I'm sorry you have to go through it. Is this why you've been really down lately? Why you had that bad day on Monday?"

"Part of it." Rose nodded. "It's also triggering all the homesickness and culture shock I haven't been addressing yet."

"So what are you going to do?" Viktoria asked, leaning an arm against the rack of clothing.

"I have no fucking clue," Rose whispered, pressing her lips together tight.

"So, the way I see it," Viktoria said, "and correct me if I'm wrong, but you've got two options. You can keep sleeping and not talking about what is building between you and him, but from what you're telling me, it sounds like you risk being pulled from your assignment and whatever else that comes along with it—"

"Humiliation, a black mark on my career, disciplinary hearing, letting Lissa down, potentially staying in this weird limbo of not being scheduled on her guard even though I'm her sanctioned guardian," Rose rattled off, flicking her fingers as she went. "People and superiors having reason to question my judgment on anything I do, I can keep going."

"I get it," Viktoria said with a small smile. "It wouldn't look good, basically, if you were sent home early."

"Yeah."

"So that's one option. Probably the one your heart wants. The other is to tell him what's going on and explain the situation to him. That's the big girl, mature thing to do, the one your brain is telling you to do."

"Yeah."

"And neither are great."

"Yeah," Rose said, chewing on her lip. She sighed. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."

Viktoria raised an eyebrow. "Did you just need someone else to say it?" When Rose nodded, Viktoria grinned. "Okay. You'll talk to him tomorrow. Tonight, however, we dance."