Page 56 of The Beast of Moscow

“I didn’t invite you on this trip to talk to myself.” Readjusting his position in the seat, he unbuckled the belt before the light overhead had turned off to signal he could do so. Then, he unbuttoned his jacket and relaxed a bit more. She still thought his tall, well-built frame seemed tense across from her. “Frankly, I invited you because I needed a companion on this trip when I do want something to do, and at this point, my only other option was my mother.”

He practically spat out the last word.

Vaslav shook his head. “I’d rather knife my fucking eyes out.”

She couldn’t stop her nervous laugh, but he grinned all the same at the sound.

“I’m not exactly sure what we’re going to be doing,” Vera said. “I have a friend flying into Paris tomorrow morning so we can get together; she’s been my best friend for years. I don’t have any other plans, and since I was told I could do whatever I wanted, I didn’t think you’d mind—did you?”

“Call it a work trip,” he returned. “I won’t do much else, but there’s a purpose for that.”

Vera scrunched up her nose, amused. “One I suppose you won’t tell me?”

A chuckle escaped him. “Net.”

Of course.

“What’s your favorite memory?” Vera asked.

The man across from her practically turned to stone. “I think you’ve taken enough turns, kisska, if you don’t mind.”

Vera tried to focus on the fact he’d quickly diverted a more personal question at the same time her body decided to react to this intensely overwhelming man calling her a kitten. With a baritone that her hormones decided to notice. “How do I resemble a kitten?”

“All fluff, no claws.”

“Screw you.”

Vas smirked and his gaze darted to the side where he could see the familiar city below. Low, he uttered, “Anything is possible.”

Or at least, that’s what she thought she heard.

Vera couldn’t be sure.

“What is your favorite memory?” he asked.

She didn’t even have to think about it. “I was three—my father took me to a museum, and there was a portrait of a dancer that was as tall as the wall. Imagine how big it looked to my eyes. I did my best version of her pose; I think my father even took a picture. It’s also one of my earliest memories.”

“I can’t actually remember mine. Not first-hand, anyhow.” Vera blinked at the unmistakable sadness that coated Vaslav’s unexpected admission. Yet, as fast as it was there, she didn’t hear a drop left behind when he added, “Was that when you knew—that you wanted to be a ballerina, yeah?”

Vera swallowed the lump of emotion forming in her throat, wishing it was easier to nod. She managed it, even whispering, “Most likely.”

“You were crying the day you saw me fall in the gallery, weren’t you?”

The next flutter of her lashes sent two small teardrops racing down her cheeks. He barely glanced her way to notice, but he remained unaffected at the sight of her sudden tears all the same.

“I can’t remem—”

“Oh, I bet you have a far better memory than me, Vera,” he said, almost chidingly.

She squirmed in her seat.

Uncomfortable, and liking it.

More than she should.

It was a strange thing, to be sad and turned on at the same time. Vera couldn’t particularly say it was her favorite, but her emotions quickly swung to the more painful side of things when Vaslav asked, “You were crying, yes?”

“And dancing; sometimes I do both, now.”