Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
By the time I step out of the shower, my watch reads almost eleven.
As much as I'd like to stay in and soak away the last two hours of cold in the ridiculous spa-like luxury of this bathroom, I need to get my ass out of here and be seen by at least a few of Aronov's staff. Never mind that it's late, it's called plausible deniability, and I'm going to need that shit once they figure out Andrey's missing.
Plus, after that little dance in the olive mill and subsequent race back, I'm too wired to sleep anyway.
Wrapping myself in a blanket-sized towel from the heated rack, I force myself to exit glorious, humid warmth. Padding across the stone floor of my bedroom, I target a pair of darkened windows and pull back the heavy silk drapes.
By day, the view from my corner suite is spectacular, ranging out a full one-hundred and eighty degrees across Aronov's vast, rolling acreage of vineyards, groves, and farmland, set against the distant, craggy mountains topped by snow. At night, it's a surreal dream. Far enough away from the ambient glow of Florence, the stars will shine like diamonds once the sleet and freezing rain finally pass through. Even now, the thin layer of ice coating the grounds gleams in the dim glow of the outside lamps.
Like the rest of Aronov's home, the rooms themselves are a master class in both comfort and affluence. Fine, silky Egyptian linens top the gigantic poster bed. Antique cabinets and end tables in matching burled walnut sit on top of plush, hand-woven rugs. Across from the bed, there's a second fireplace, yet another massive medieval affair, much like the one out in the sitting room, only this one's more elaborate, with intricate, colorful ceramic tilework framing the hearth.
Then, there's the Chagall.
Bathed in soft, warm light on the center wall, it's impossible to miss. The thing's as real as they come, and it's one of his masterpieces, too, a romantic, fanciful scene of two lovers embracing against the backdrop of flowering bushes and a moonlit sky.
It's not lost on me that the pale, dark-haired woman in the painting is Chagall's wife, nor that we share a common name.
While I'm more than aware of the state of Aronov's bank accounts, frankly, I'm still stunned that he could pull off that kind of acquisition on such short notice. But I'll give him credit; it's a slick move and far more subtle than his usual advances.
Either way, I have more important things to deal with.
Like the fucking dead guy outside.
Grabbing my phone off the nearby table, I tap in my code and open the hidden app. Whitlock's reply to my earlier message appears instantly.
TheTravelingCowboy: Un-fucking-believable
I roll my eyes because, really, where have I heard that before.
What can I say? I have a gift ;)
TheTravelingCowboy: That is not the word I'd use
Manageable?
TheTravelingCowboy: And now you're insulting me
You know you love me
TheTravelingCowboy: We have very different definitions of love
TheTravelingCowbow: But yes. Em's already on it
City?
At a little over an hour away, Florence would be my optimal choice. With the river winding through town, there are plenty of opportunities to hide a body or two, at least for a couple of days, while Whitlock hacks Andrey's accounts and sets him up to fall. And with the recent movements of the Families moving further north from their strongholds in the south, it's not going to be that hard to spread around the blame. Hell, considering what we've seen of Koshmarin, an internal hit is just as plausible.
TheTravelingCowboy: Likely
You know how brothers can be, always fighting
TheTravelingCowboy: I do. I'll take care of it… like always
You're the best
TheTravelingCowboy: Now you're just stating the obvious
Before logging out, I snap a quick pic of the Chagall and send it over.
By the way, this is hanging in my room. See what you can find out. Show it to Spooky, too. I want to know what she thinks
TheTravelingCowboy: Will do
TheTravelingCowboy: And be careful. Please. Eli's already called twice. He's threatening to come get you himself
Pfft, tell him to chill
TheTravelingCowboy: I'm not stupid. Now turn your phone off for a couple of hours. I need to wipe the history and reload
Chuckling at the hateful scowl I know he's sporting, I do as I'm told, toss my phone into the drawer by the bed, and throw on some clothes. Before slipping downstairs, I do a final check of my weapons and their hiding spots.
See, the nice thing about castles and gigantic rooms is the nearly infinite possibilities for tucking away small items, especially when you're willing to pry up the ancient, hand-cut timber planks beneath the rugs in Rosalie's room. Or when you don't mind carving out the underside of your box springs. Or when you can climb the stone walls high enough to reach the recessed window ledge near the top of the double ceiling.
Satisfied that our gear is safe from prying eyes, at least for now, I pull the door behind me and quietly make my way to the curved marble of the grand center staircase at the far end of the hall. I clock the distance and rooms as I pass by, noting the slivers of light outlining a few of the doors.
Halfway down, I slow when I hear Rosalie's throaty laugh coming from somewhere deep on the second floor. Aronov's low, masculine purr answers, followed by a flirtatious exchange I can't quite pick out. Regardless, from her tone, she's got that son of a bitch eating out of her hand, so I'm content to move on and do my thing. Echoing in the background, there's a handful of other voices, too, as well as the distant rumble of a television.
I finally find my mark down on the main floor.
"Feliks," I call out, waving down the giant of a man right as he slides through a door leading into the central kitchen. At the sound of my voice, the bodyguard immediately spins, and like the rest of Aronov's crew, despite the hour, Feliks still wears his usual uniform of a suit and tie. Beneath the tailored jacket, I catch the subtle shape of twin holsters against his ribs. He's armed and ready, even here in the house, but the open amber bottle in his meaty fist tells me he's off duty.
"Ms. Swan." Feliks dips his head in polite acknowledgment. Like Aronov's Mitya, this one's moderately accented English is superb, and like any good professional, he quickly masks his surprise at my sudden appearance. Offering me a small smile that does nothing to soften the harsh lines of his face, he says, "It is late for you to be out roaming."
I don't miss the subtle rebuke.
"Come now, I'm on vacation," I say, laughing like the good little socialite I'm pretending to be. "It's not late at all." I pause and let a bit of pink climb my cheeks to sell my next line. "I do need some help, though…"
Feliks chuffs, and from the fidgeting line of his shoulders, I can tell the poor guy has no clue how to argue with his boss's small, American, would-be lover. He hesitates but then, with a poorly contained sigh, nods in a single, quick affirmative. "Of course. How may I assist you?"
I step closer. Taking a cue from my partner-cum-Academy Award winner, I slowly run my fingertips along his forearm, all the way from his wrist to his elbow. Hard, bulky muscle twitches beneath the fine wool, but he doesn't do a thing to reject my touch. If anything, he leans in closer.
Jesus, this is easy.
"This afternoon," I say, drawing it out. "Misha told me there was a pool somewhere." Putting on a little pout, I wave a haphazard hand, purposefully skipping past the set of stairs that I already know leads to the lower levels. "And maybe a steam room and sauna?" I flash him a row of teeth and make a show of worrying my bottom lip. "I would kill for a soak and a glass of wine before bed."
"Down the stairs one level. Just past the gymnasium and banya, you will find the path to pool." His answer pops out a little too fast, and as eyes fall in a quick scan down my frame, that small smile of his widens. His throat moves beneath the loosened tie looping his neck. "Would you like me to show you the way? Or perhaps you wish… company?"
Wow.
Not smart, buddy.
"I don't want to take you away from your evening," I tell him, motioning at his beer, and then give his arm a little squeeze, enough to soften the blow. "Plus, I wouldn't want to cause any problems for you with your… employer." I let that sink in, and from the nearly instantaneous brace of his jaw, it does.
Ah, that's right.
Your boss doesn't like sharing his toys.
"Yes, of course," Feliks replies, straightening at once as he gestures at the stairs behind me. "Please enjoy your swim, Ms. Swan, and let me know if you have any troubles."
I throw Aronov's guard a flirty little wink over my shoulder, doing my damnedest to restrain the amused twitch of my lips.
How Rosalie keeps this shit up, I'll never know.
Less than ten minutes later, I finish my brief exploration of the empty gym, steam rooms, and an expansive, distinctively patterned, ash-lined sauna and follow the hallway as Feliks said. At the very end, right as I step out of the open doorway onto an arced stone catwalk, some twenty feet in the air, I stop dead in my tracks.
Aronov wasn't joking when he said he had a pool underneath his castle.
With a wandering natural shape and covering at least half the footprint of the structure above, it's more like an underground lake than a pool, surrounded by natural rock and the massive blocks of the castle's foundation. At one end, curtains of water cascade off a wide ledge high above, concealing a cave-like grotto. In the center, gargantuan stone support pillars rising to the ceiling sit like islands in the middle of pale, glowing turquoise. Along the walls, dimly lit sconces flicker and dance.
The effect is mesmerizing, and I don't even bother to go all the way down to check it out.
Instead, I duck back into the changing room between the steam room and the sauna, where I locate a small boutique's worth of guest bathing suits. Unsurprisingly, there's not a single garment meant for function. No, because this is Aronov we're talking about, they're all barely-there scraps of fabric meant to showcase the wearer versus providing real support.
Without thinking, I grab a slinky black one-piece that's supposedly my size. The flimsy thing offers virtually nothing in the way of a back, and the deep, plunging V of the halter neckline hits me damned near to the navel, but I really don't care.
When I said I'd kill for a soak, I meant it.
Exiting the changing room, I cross the catwalk and descend the stairs at the opposite end. The second I hit the travertine decking and spot the triplet of Olympic-sized lanes hiding behind the center pillars, I realize my mistake.
I'm not the only one down here, after all.
And I'd recognize that man a mile away.
Smooth and lightning-fast, Masen sluices through the water in a streamlined, economical crawl that eats up the length of the lane. Like everything else about him, he's quiet even here, too, barely making a splash, despite the power and purpose behind the strokes.
Considering his background, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. I'm not used to seeing this kind of focus and elegance of movement in the men I work with. Unable to resist, I walk to the edge on silent feet, and for a minute, I forget the dead man outside and just… watch him move.
I smile when he flip-turns at the end and starts his return lap.
Thirty feet away, Masen abruptly dives below the surface. A second later, now just over five feet away from my edge, a shaking head pops up, followed by the upper half of a chiseled chest.
Wet and slicked back, his hair's darker, and in the low light of the cavern, Masen's eyes look like midnight as they slowly climb from my legs to the deep V of my suit before finally settling on my face. I don't know what he sees, but there's a certain languidness in his silent gaze, echoed in the not-quite smile on his lips. His ribcage expands and contracts a little faster than usual, and his breath comes out a little shallower. I wonder just how long he's been going and how many miles he's already logged.
For a moment, neither of us say anything, and I continue my own perusal, noting the crisp lines of black and gray covering his left pectoral and shoulder. It's a superbly done nautical piece – a north-reading compass set against a shaded, old-world map – and on his right, the same side as the bone frog on his inner forearm, clean, cursive script decorates his ribs. It's too dark, and I'm too far away to read, but I'd bet my paycheck he's wearing a list of names.
One brow finally arches. "You coming in, or are we just going to stare at each other?"
My shoulders shake, but I walk over to the nearby stairs without a word.
I try and miserably fail to suppress my reaction when the cool water hits the bare skin of my thighs. It's not like it's cold, at least not compared to the last couple of hours of sleet and winter wind, but still. It's not exactly a hot tub either.
"Jesus," I mutter as I ease my way deeper.
"Come on, it's not that bad," Masen says, grinning that stupidly attractive grin of his. When I grimace, he tsks, right on the verge of laughing, and I swear I'm going to smack the teasing out of him. "Just go under, and you'll get used to it."
I shoot him a pissed-off scowl, even though I know he's right. When I finally dunk my head and come up, pushing the hair off my face, that teasing vanishes, however. He hasn't moved an inch, and as he watches me approach, those probing eyes of his shade even darker.
"So," I say, stopping no more than a foot away. Even balancing on my tiptoes, the water hits me right at the tops of my shoulders. "This is how you keep in shape?"
Masen's cheeks crease because he and I both know that in shape is a bit of an understatement.
See, coming out of the Unit and in my line of work, I'm used to a certain level of fitness and strength, especially when it comes to field operatives. It's just part of the job. But Masen's chest and abdomen might as well be carved out of granite, and his arms are nothing but hard, lean muscle and sinew, tanned from years in the sandbox.
For someone like me – someone who's used to being able to take down pretty much any opponent in the room – knowing that he could likely take me?
That kind of lethal, masculine physicality is downright exhilarating.
"Habit, I guess." He shrugs in a lazy, nonchalant roll of his shoulders, but the lingering intensity in his features tells another story. "And most of the time, especially when I'm down here alone, I find it relaxing."
"Most of the time?"
Masen steps toward me, and when I automatically float back in retreat, his grin stretches, and he follows. "I think you know what I mean."
I give him my best mask of innocence. "No, I don't."
Masen doesn't answer for a long moment and instead slowly corrals me away from the end of the pool, out of sight from the catwalk above and toward the back side of the center pillars. As we bob through the pale, calm water, his irises brighten and gleam. The normally hard line of his lips softens, and the sleek muscles along his shoulders and arms flex and loosen.
This is the most comfortable and most at ease I've ever seen this man. He's shockingly attractive, and I am definitely not immune.
"What are you looking at?" I finally ask as I prop my elbows on a submerged shelf by the wall. I kick my feet up in a slow, cycling motion to float on my back.
Masen chases my movements, and his voice drops in both pitch and volume when he speaks. "You."
I stare at the intricate, shaded lines of the map on his chest. Opposite the compass, a geared clock strikes twelve on the inside of his bicep. "Why's that?"
"In my line of work, you learn to recognize threats pretty quickly, and you're a very dangerous woman."
He's not wrong, but I don't think we're using the same definitions right now.
My brows climb, even as my lips curve. "Dangerous?"
"You heard me," he says, and beneath the water, I feel his hand drift down my spine before flattening against the dip in my lower back. It's a light, gentle press, just enough support that my body instinctively relaxes, and I float higher in the water. "And I should stay far, far away from you."
"Are you always this honest?"
"Depends on the topic and who I'm with." The brace against my back disappears. Before I can sink, he pushes my knees down and apart and moves to stand between them.
"Okay, then how about this," I say, drawing it out when he runs his palms down my calves. "Remember several nights ago at the restaurant? Your boss said something to me in Russian."
Masen stills. "I remember."
I pause for a second, studying the path of a lone droplet as it trails down the side of his neck and along the valley of his chest, where it disappears in the black and gray camouflage. "What did Aronov say to me?"
Masen's grip slides up my calves to the underside of my knees, and then he hitches my legs around his waist. An involuntary shiver races down my spine when he slowly leans in closer, tracing the shell of my ear with his lips. The touch is as light as a feather, but I feel it all the way down to my toes. As soft as spun silk, he murmurs, "Are we still pretending you don't understand Russian?"
It takes everything I have not to laugh. I angle my face toward him, rasping against day-old stubble and earning my own slight shudder when I whisper back. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
His whole body shakes with silent laughter as I let him pull me away from the wall. Snaking my arms over his shoulders, I lock my wrists around his neck, loosely holding myself up.
"Fine." Those shaking shoulders of his abruptly cease. A sharp huff of anger spills out, and when I look up, a rare display of icy fury stares back at me. Masen's jaw ticks, and I don't miss the accompanying spasm of his grip around my thighs. "He said he wanted to hear you say very good when he fucks your throat."
Hearing it out of his mouth doesn't have quite the same effect.
Nonetheless, recalling Aronov's slick, oily ogling as he purred out the phrase sends a not-so-pleasant image flashing through my brain, and my nose crinkles. It's an honest response, too, never mind that this isn't new information.
That son of a bitch really will make me lose my lunch one of these days.
"Well," I reply, and I can't hide the dryness that finds its way into my voice. "That's never happening. Ever."
Masen doesn't respond at first, but then he ducks his chin once in silent, succinct agreement.
We don't speak for a little while longer and instead just float around in a slow, wandering, watery waltz. His thumbs move in tiny patterns across my skin, circling to a rhythm only he can hear. It's as soothing as it is arousing, and the shift in tempo from the previous few hours leaves me almost drunk.
"So," he says after a moment, quiet against the steady rush of the waterfall at the far end of the pool. "If we're being honest with each other, that bit you told Aro this morning about your father. How BSA sells on the black market. True or false?"
"False." I roll my eyes and adjust my hold around his neck. "Obviously."
"Yeah? Why?"
"You said to push…" I shrug, and the action generates sparking friction that neither of us misses. Something warm and heavy settles low in my stomach, and, no joke, at this point, between the contrast of the air and cooler water and the man wreaking havoc on my senses, my nipples could probably cut glass, a reaction the flimsy fabric of my suit does nothing to hide. "So, I pushed."
"That, you did." Masen's lips are again at my ear, smiling, and we're close enough that everywhere we touch, heat bleeds from him into me, sending wave after wave of shimmering gooseflesh across my skin. It's a heady, intoxicating sensation that I'm desperate to chase, even though my brain is well aware of the risk I'm taking.
"What are you looking for?" he asks a beat later, tracking my line of sight.
Fuck.
I hadn't even realized I was scanning.
Taking a deep breath, I opt for the truth as I glance over his shoulder to the dark corners high above. "Cameras."
"They're off," he murmurs, lazily running his lips down the side of my neck until my eyes close and I arch to grant him better access.
"What?" My fingers wind themselves through the short, wet hair at his nape, pushing and then tugging him back to where I want him.
"I told you, I pretty much do whatever I want," he says, swallowing as I reposition and sink a little lower in the water. A hard, thick line of male muscle hits my inner thigh, and everything south of my waistline tightens. Masen's fingers spread, inching higher and squeezing my thighs like he knows what he's doing to me. "I don't like being watched, and I've made that known as a condition of my… employment."
I give myself a little shake to clear my head, and pull back, where I can read his eyes. He stares back at me, not bothering to conceal the near-violent intensity in those gemstone depths. I swear it feels like he's staring straight through every one of my walls. It's fucking unnerving, but I don't dare look away when I softly ask, "Are there cameras in my suite?"
"No." His answer hits like a punch.
"How do you know?"
Masen hesitates for a second, weighing his own set of risks, but then his gaze drops to my mouth before completing a slow, meandering journey of my face. "I removed them."
That radar of mine rings like a gong. "Why?"
He reaches up and pushes a water-logged strand of hair off my cheek. "That way his security team wouldn't catch you looking for them… which I'm assuming you've already done."
I don't reply to that – I don't need to – nor do I break eye contact when I ask my next question. "How'd you get them to agree?"
His mouth hovers over mine, almost touching. "I didn't ask permission."
As much as I want to follow up on that little admission, I don't.
Spooky always says that you can't push people like Masen too far, too fast. At best, they'll clam up, and you wreck what little trust you've built. At worst, they conclude you're a threat, and they put a bullet in your brain before you know what's happening.
And I'd prefer it if we didn't shoot each other.
We're quiet for another few moments, and Masen eventually walks us back toward the flat, submerged shelf against the center pillar walls. He doesn't let me go, though. No, if anything, he pulls me tighter against his chest when my back lightly bumps the tile. His right continues to hold me up while his left splays out across my ribs. My breathing turns shallow when I feel the slow, gentle stroke of his fingertips along the bottom swell of my breast. Beneath his shorts, he's still hard against my center, and that tension in my gut coils tighter and tighter. My whole body feels like a live wire, just waiting to spark.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask. While I certainly have suspicions, I want to hear him say it.
"I don't think you want to know."
Flashing him a mischievous smile, I run my teeth along his jaw until I'm at his ear. His Adam's apple bobs when my breath tickles across warm, damp skin. "What if I do?"
"All right." Masen chuffs out a laugh, a motion that makes the hardness between my legs twitch, and when he responds, his voice goes low and gravelly. "I'm thinking about putting my mouth on you again."
Jesus.
This man's going to give me a coronary.
My abdomen clenches, and considering how tightly I'm wound, there's a high probability that I'll kill him if he doesn't. Of course, I don't tell him that.
He's already closer to the truth than I want, and he's not the only one who shouldn't be pushed too hard.
"Is that your polite answer?"
Nodding and wearing something close to a smirk, Masen sets me down on the edge of the shelf behind us. The position gives me a few extra inches, enough that we're now at equal height. "Close enough."
Unable to stop myself, I run the flats of my palms down his chest to his abdomen, skimming across all those pretty lines and valleys. He jerks when my nails trace the sharp, V-shaped diagonals that disappear beneath his waistband. "If that's polite, what's the impolite version?"
Masen spreads my legs with his hips and leans closer until there's no more than an inch of heavy, humid air separating our lips. Slowly, giving me all the time in the world to react, he lets go of my hip and slips his hand into the plunging neckline of my swimsuit. His eyes never leave mine as he kneads my bare breast, rolling my nipple between his thumb and forefinger with a firm, repeating tug that sends zinging warmth through my entire lower half.
"I'm thinking about just how much I want to bury my face between your legs and stay there until you come on my tongue."
Fuck.
What do you know? I want that, too.
Because, right now, I swear to God, I'm ready to combust.
My heart pounds a jagged rhythm against my sternum, and it takes real effort not to whimper when he thumbs down the column of my throat as he continues his sensual assault on my breasts. I don't know if it's possible to orgasm from nipple stimulation alone, but I'm ready to find out. I manage a low, breathy, "You say that to all of your boss's guests?"
"No." His lips spread, so close against mine. "Never."
"What about that pretty blonde at the party?" I don't know what I'm saying, and jealousy is never a good look, but the thought of him like this with one of those women makes me itch for a knife.
"Tanya?" Instead of taking offense, Masen's grin spreads even wider, and the hand on my hip creeps up to the juncture of my thighs. His fingertips ghost over the thin fabric of my suit, following the center seam. "Absolutely not."
I cock a playful, arrogant brow, even as air saws in and out of my chest like I'm running a marathon. "So, I'm special then."
"Yeah, yo–"
This time, I'm the one who starts the kiss, silencing whatever else he was about to say. And just like that night in the Schönbrunn, the second we connect, lightning shoots through my veins, pulsing and timed to the rough, greedy strokes of his tongue against mine.
Grabbing him by the waistband, I draw him closer and lock my ankles around his trim waist until a low, grunting sound in the back of his throat hits my ears. That feather touch between my thighs dives beneath my suit, abruptly turning urgent and purposeful, like he's the one about to come undone, not me.
It takes him all of two seconds to find the spot that makes me moan, and I wasn't wrong when I guessed he'd be amazing in bed.
Even in this, Masen is relentless in his pursuit, so much so that my eyes slide shut, and I can't stop myself from sinking into utter sensation. My skin feels too tight, like I'm on the verge of explosion, and all I can do is hold on and touch him everywhere my fingers can find.
"Christ, I want you," he mutters against my lips, and then he drags his down my throat before taking my breast in his mouth, suckling and teasing until my back bows, pushing him to take more of me. I jerk when I register two fingers slowly pushing inside me, sliding and curling at just the right angle before he thrusts in and out, over and over, until I'm moving with him, riding his hand and damned near begging. Masen's lips release my breast with a wet sucking sound, just long enough to repeat the same plea from that night in his bolt hole in Vienna. "If you tell me to stop, I will."
I answer by pulling his face back to mine and licking my way into his mouth. Like the first, this kiss is hard and demanding, hungry, tinged with a kind of raw desperation I've never experienced. When I reach down to palm him over his shorts, Masen groans something between a growl and a needy sigh.
Before I can blink, those talented fingers of his stop their stroking and disappear. He lifts me out of the water with effortless ease, depositing me on the decking. Masen's out no more than a second later with a single, muscled shove, and then he's prowling up my body to settle between my thighs.
I yank him down as he rocks against me, and I'm a hundred percent sure that if he keeps doing that shit, I'm going to come from that slight motion alone. He knows it, too, but judging by the slackness of his features and the contrasting, coiled tautness of the muscles flexing beneath my palms, I'm not the only one about to lose it.
"I told you what I wanted," he murmurs, licking his lips as he starts to slide down my torso, and he grins that ridiculous grin of his when I raise my brows in expectation and push his head down to where we both want it.
Of course, because karma's a bitch, a loud, jarring vibration echoes in the cavern.
We freeze, going as still as death itself.
The vibration goes off again a beat later, and this time it pulses in a loud, repeating pattern that's impossible to ignore. It takes me a minute to realize that the noise is coming from both Masen's cell sitting on a table twenty feet away and the high-end, matte black digital dive watch circling his wrist. His watch pulses again, and the face blinks to life.
"I think someone wants to talk to you," I mutter as I lift on my elbows.
Masen's cheeks puff out with his loud, slow exhale, and I chuckle when he scowls at his wrist and then again at me. Still kneeling between my thighs, he taps his watch screen to silence it. When it just vibrates again, he growls out a low, pissed-off, "Damn it," under his breath.
"Give me a second," he says, jumping up to grab his phone off the table.
As he goes to answer, I slip back into the pool, ducking my head under to cool both my body and my libido.
This better be fucking good.
"Chto ty khochesh'?" he asks, and I have to muffle my laugh at the irritation he doesn't even bother to hide.
With the echo of the cavern and the background noise from the waterfall, I can't hear a thing from the other side of the line, but from the casualness and familiarity of the conversation, I'm betting it's Dmitri. As they speak, I watch Masen's expression as it subtly shifts, and by the time he asks his next question, a kernel of unease finds its way to the pit of my stomach.
"Kto?" Masen's eyes scan the room before darting back to me. "Net, ya ne videl Andreya s utra." When Dmitri or whoever it is says something else, Masen shoves a rough hand through his hair, and the hard line of his jaw rolls. "Dolzhno byt', on gde-to vypivayet."
Yeah, if by out drinking, we mean no longer breathing…
I dive under the water again, coming up right as Masen says a quiet, "Khorosho, ya budu cherez minutu."
Well, shit.
There went my fun for the evening.
Still aggravated, Masen chucks his phone on the table and walks back over, stopping only to squat down next to the edge. He's staring at me again, but there's something in his expression – something darker, something hard – that makes that kernel of unease bloom. My heart rate slows to a steady thump, instinctively prepping for whatever's coming next.
Slowly treading water a few feet away, I give him a soft smile and ask, "What's wrong?
He frowns. "Nothing for you to worry about, but I've got to go." He palms the back of his neck and then waves up at the catwalk and exit in casual annoyance. But I see those wheels turning. "One of the guards isn't calling in."
"What?" Forehead wrinkling, I feign an appropriate level of concern. "Is… is that normal?"
When he looks back down, Masen's eyes burn into mine, and his voice drops into that same quiet, maddeningly calm register I heard right before he took Taeb out. "I don't suppose you've seen Andrey lately, have you?"
"Who?"
"Blond guy from the gate this morning."
"No, of course not." I shake my head and glide my fingertips across the glowing, glass-smooth, turquoise water. "I've been inside all day."
He smiles, but this one doesn't touch his eyes. "That's what I thought."
.
.
.
Notes:
Russian (transliterated):
Chto ty khochesh': What do you want
Kto: Who
Net, ya ne videl Andreya s utra.: No, I've not seen Andrey since this morning
Khorosho, ya budu cherez minutu: Okay, I'll be there in a minute
Glossary:
Banya: this is the Russian word for sauna. Russian banya is originally a steam bath with a wood stove. The bath takes place in a small room or building designed for dry or wet heat sessions. It's an essential aspect of Russian culture, dating back centuries, and was historically used by all social classes. Even today, it's a place where Russian businesspeople and politicians meet.
Chagall: Marc Chagall was an early modernist, Russian-born artist. He was born Moishe Shagal in a Lithuanian Jewish Hassidic family in modern-day Belarus during the time of the Russian empire. He lived and worked in Russia and France and eventually moved to the US during WW2.
Bella Rosenfeld was Chagall's muse, love, and wife of 30 years until she died in 1944. He wrote of meeting her the first time, "Her silence is mine. Her eyes, mine. I feel she has known me always, my childhood, my present life, my future; as if she were watching over me, divining my innermost being, though this is the first time I have seen her. I know this is she, my wife." (quoted in J. Baal-Teshuva, ed., Chagall, A Retrospective).
The painting in the chapter above is based on his Les Amoureux.
Crawl: or front crawl, forward crawl, American crawl, or Australian crawl is a swimming stroke generally regarded as the fastest of the four primary strokes (crawl, butterfly, backstroke, and breaststroke). It's the stroke used almost universally in freestyle competitions; hence, you'll often hear it simply referred to as freestyle.
Sandbox: military slang, commonly used in reference to a forward position in Iraq or the Arabian Peninsula, sometimes Afghanistan, as well