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Exhaling a long, slow breath, I braced my hands against the counter and closed my eyes. I knew things would be… an adjustment. I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security during those first few weeks here. Initially things were fine. No, they were great. He was happy. We were alive, for starters, and we were together. I couldn’t have asked for more.
Then I went back to work and this other side of Roan appeared — the dark, quiet, sullen side. It didn’t take a genius to see the two were related. Along with everything else he endured, this new weight settled on his shoulders and wouldn’t leave. I had no idea how to turn back the clock, no idea hownotto piss him off these days, because everything I did, ordidn’tdo, was wrong.
His phone dinged from where he’d left it, next to the coffee pot. I stole a glance at the hallway before crossing to the other side of the kitchen. Picking up his phone, I scanned the text notification, my teeth grinding together.
It was from someone I’d never heard of — someone named Samuel. No last name.
You’re brilliant!! If you were here, I’d fucking kiss you!
If there was anything else, it wasn’t displayed on the notification. Setting the phone down, I backed away before I broke the fucking thing or stormed into the bathroom to demand answers.
Who the fuck was Samuel?!
Every time his phone blew up or he engaged in back-and-forth text messaging, Roan shrugged it off as one of the Starlings, someone from work, or even his mother. Replaying the past few months in my head, I began to doubt everything he’d told me. There had never beenanymention ofanyonenamed Samuel. Ever.
By the time I was done with breakfast and thoroughly pissed, Roan returned in a new outfit with damp, disheveled hair. He doctored his coffee the way he liked with cream and sugar and headed for the front door, checking his phone again on the way.
“I’ll drive you,” I said, downing the rest of my tea and hurrying after him.
“I have no doubt,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. Snatching his violin case off the floor, he yanked the door open and stormed out.
Keeping my mouth shut, I ground my molars together and slammed the door behind me. Maybe I should have introduced him to Ilya first thing, sohecould deal with Roan’s pissiness instead of me. But then again, I wanted to see if Roan was really going to the theater and who the fuck he was talking to when he got there.
The silent treatment continued in the elevator. Surprise, surprise. The space between us was only about two-hundred centimeters, but that invisible boundary may as well have been the fucking Urals. I saw Roan but I couldn’tgetto him, no matter what I did.
The car ride wasn’t much better. Roan was there,right there, next to me, but didn’t acknowledge me at all. He didn’t do anything, for that matter. No tapping along to the music, no head bobs, no obvious people watching. He was like a fucking statue, staring out the window but not seeing a thing.
He couldn’t have been that pissed about Oleg. They barely knew each other. Then again, he hadn’t known Katya for very long either and he took her death personally too.
Parking in the alley next to the theater, I got out and circled around the back of the car. Roan was already out and halfway to the stage door by the time I reached his side. Once upon a time, he’d wait for me to open the door and give me grief about chivalry. Now? He didn’t bother waiting for me to open or close any door, car or otherwise.
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” he said, opening the door to the side entrance.
“I’m staying for a bit.”
Pausing in the threshold, he shot me a look that cut right through me. Rather than say whatever was on his mind, he shook his head and disappeared into the dark theater. I wasdefinitelystaying after that fucking look. The fact he didn’t want me around was a giant red flag.
The Adler was one of the few places I knew his safety was guaranteed, so I didn’t feel the need to rush after him. By the time I made it in and to the front of the auditorium, he’d disappeared somewhere backstage anyway.
I cracked my neck on either side and ventured toward the lobby to wait for Ilya. Putting some fucking distance between myself and Roan wouldn’t hurt either.
Ten minutes before the hour, Ilya appeared, looking like a slightly smaller version of his uncle, dressed in a simple black suit, minus all of the tattoos.
“Sasha,” he said with a nod, extending his hand.
“This way.” I tossed my head toward the auditorium.
“This is Feodor’s theater, isn’t it?” Ilya asked, studying the ornate interior as we walked.
“You know him?” I wouldn’t have been surprised. Feodor was Sergei’s cousin’s son, more like a nephew than anything. As the ballerino for the Bolshoi company, he was revered as the best dancer in Russia, hands down. Until someone took a sledgehammer to his leg in three places.
Ilya shook his head. “Not personally. I saw him dance in Moscow once. Such a shame what happened.”
“Yes, it was.” I pushed open the door to the auditorium and let him walk down the aisle first.
Roan was on stage with Feodor and the other artistic directors, listening as Feodor explained whatever he wanted while gesturing with one hand — the other supported him on a cane. None of them paid any attention to us as we slipped into one of the rows close, but not too close, to the stage and sat.
“Yes?” Feodor asked with a nod, glancing between Roan and another guy, one I didn’t recognize. “The dancers can only do so much. Work together. Make the atmosphere sing. Lights, sound, oh, where’s my costumer?” Feodor turned and started talking to a curly-haired woman with a sketchpad.
