Jaded (11 page)

S
he’s gone, sir.”

“What do you mean,
she’s gone
?”

Daniel, a messenger who, at this moment, really wished he wasn’t, stood his ground and tried to make his voice steady. This job wasn’t worth the two coppers he was being paid, not when he had to face the biggest crime lord in all of Milzyr. “The Temple of Dreams delivered a message to Edgar Romanoff saying that she’d gone out of town with an old friend for three weeks.”

The man in front of Daniel had his back to him. He bowed his head, his long, dark hair shot through with silver hung in his face. His hands clenched.
“An old friend
.
”
His voice was deceptively soft. Soft meant dangerous from Ivan Lazarson.

Daniel fought the urge to take a step back, out of the opulently decorated room he now stood in. “A man, sir. When Romanoff questioned the other courtesans, they told him he was a huge man, wealthy, dark hair, and blue eyes, a little bit ugly.”

“I know who it is.” He roared the sentence suddenly, rounding on Daniel, who couldn’t help taking a stumbling step backward. Ivan Lazarson wasn’t a muscular man, but power wasn’t always wielded by biceps and fists. Not when knives were second nature. Ivan had a sharp, shiny one sheathed at his belt. Daniel’s eyes fixed on it. “It’s the only person for whom Lilya would ever leave the Temple of Dreams.
Byron Andropov.
”

Daniel wanted to ask why he cared, why he’d been paying Edgar Romanoff all these years to keep an eye on this woman. But one didn’t ask Ivan questions if one wanted to stay unmaimed.

Ivan paced the room, rubbing his hand over his chin and frowning. The man looked worried, upset. For a moment the scariness of Ivan Lazarson evaporated and he looked like a man instead of a monster, a man with a heavy concern.

Then Ivan whirled toward him with insanity edging into his icy eyes and the momentary patina of harmlessness faded to threat. He pointed at Daniel. “Get me a horse and pack him for a day’s journey.”

 

 

Lilya spent most of the afternoon in the library with Alek, soaking in everything he had to teach her about basic Ryliskian history. With vibrant words that painted vivid mental images, Alek brought the past to life for her. Instead of staid, dry figures from history, he created characters. Instead of reciting dates and events, he told her stories.

They paused for a lunch of sandwiches, lemon biscuits, and tea, and then went back to work at her urging. Alek made learning enjoyable and her mind thirsted for what he had to teach her like a desert thirsted for water.

The end of the afternoon, she closed the book they’d been reading from. “I’m sure that you’re a wonderful writer, but you really should consider teaching. Your enthusiasm for the subject shines through when you speak and makes the material much more interesting than it’s got any right to be.”

“Teaching?” He shook his head and his lips twisted in a rueful smile. “I’m not good with people.”

“You’re good with me.”

His hair was mussed from the constant habit he had of running his hand through it. She itched to fix it for him, but she knew the contact would not be welcomed. It was far too intimate and that
was
something he seemed to have a problem with.

He glanced up at her. “You’re one person, not a classroom full.”

“How did you become so fascinated with history, anyway?”

“It’s always been an interest of mine.” He closed his book and pushed it away. “Since I was in school as a young boy. I went to the university, thinking I’d become a doctor and follow in my father’s footsteps, and met a woman named . . .” He trailed off, his face losing its charming half smile. “I met a woman. She was a history major.” He paused and storm clouds seemed to move into his eyes. “In order to get a foot in the door with her, I told her I was having trouble in my history class and needed tutoring. Then she did for me what you’re saying I’m doing for you—she made history come alive.”

Lilya connected the dots. Perhaps this woman was the reason Byron had wanted her to come to his house for these three weeks. Did the mystery woman have some kind of hold over Alek that was crippling him emotionally? Perhaps holding on to history the way he did wasn’t just because he had a love for the subject, maybe it was his way of holding on to her.

“I see.” She studied his face, which was completely shuttered, making her believe her theory might be correct. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about her. That meant the woman was a painful subject and Lilya knew all about burying those.

He piled the books, not looking into her eyes. “If you had continued on with your education, what path would you have chosen?”

The question was like a sucker punch to her solar plexus. Her breath whooshed out of her and she lowered her eyes. No one had ever asked her that and it brought up memories long secreted away. “Art. I would have pursued . . . art.”

It was amazing how much the loss still weighed on her. The room her father, Oren, had given her in their small home, the smell of the paint, and the feel of fresh paper under her hands. It had been hard for Oren to find money for the supplies, but he’d believed so much in her and had wanted to see her happy. It wasn’t the loss of the art itself that bothered her; the art was more a symbol of a time when she’d been safe and loved.

Then fever had come to their home and taken it all away.

“Art? The study of it or the actual—”

“Painting.” She raised her eyes to him. “That’s what I loved most to do as a child. I feel certain that if I been allowed to finish my schooling, I would be an artist today. My father always said I had a natural aptitude for it. A gift. It’s been a long time since I put paint to canvas, however.”

“Not much money in that.”

“No, but some things mean more than money.”

His eyes clouded for a moment. “Yes, you’re right. They do.”

She studied him as he gathered books, papers, and pens. For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed unguarded and a little lost. Again she suspected the woman was the cause.

After she’d finished her afternoon with Alek, avoiding the subject of magick and the mystery woman—it was too early to approach either of them—she headed up to her room. She hadn’t seen Byron since the morning and she was sad about that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt
sad
at the absence of anyone, especially a man.

Another testament to how different Byron was—no rules seemed to apply to him. Where he was concerned she was lost, whirling around in the air with nothing to hold on to. She couldn’t plan for him or control him. She definitely didn’t have the strength to deny him.

Suddenly cold, she stared at the fireless hearth and hugged herself. The last time she’d had these types of feelings for a man, he’d beaten her and thrown her like a scrap to a bunch of men who’d literally tried to tear her limb from limb.

Her rational mind knew that Byron would never do anything to hurt her. She trusted him. Yet what had happened to her still bruised the back of her mind, even if it was irrational. That emotional bruise linked deep caring for a man with her utter destruction. No matter how she tried to untangle that knot, it wouldn’t come free.

Someone knocked on her door. She called for the person to enter and Byron walked in with an armful of kindling. Something light fluttered through her chest. Ah, the man who made such trouble in her mind.

Smiling, she walked toward him, still hugging her chest against the late autumn chill. “You really should hire a few people to come and do this work for you.”

He set the kindling down in the metal basket near the hearth, then stood and brushed off his hands. “But then I would have no excuse to visit your room.”

“You don’t need an excuse, Byron, and think of the good work you’d be providing people who need it. And now, after the revolution, people
do
need it.”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “I can’t argue with that logic.”

She smiled sweetly. “I never imagined you could.”

His expression went soft and he motioned to her. “Come here.”

She went to him and let him envelope her in his strong arms. Closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of him, she buried her nose near his throat. Longing sang through her, an emotion that placed itself somewhere on the scale between wistfulness and hopefulness. It made tears touch her eyes and something in her chest give a little squeeze. Her arms came around him and she held on like she would never let go.

She wanted him in her bed for the night, but her urge had little to do with sexual fulfillment and a lot to do with wanting him near her in the closest way possible. The feel of his bare skin. The scent of him. The comfort of his arms. The tenor of his voice in her ears.

If she couldn’t have him in her life forever, she could take tonight.

The quality and intensity of her emotions made her pull her arms away and back up a few steps. She couldn’t raise her eyes to his, afraid he might see the naked need she felt for him reflected there. This was becoming unmanageable. Frightening. Her desire for him made her feel out of control.

“Lilya? Are you all right?”

Suddenly she felt like she was suffocating. “I’m fine. I think I need a little air, though. A walk maybe.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No.”
She paused, drawing a breath. “I mean, I think I need to be alone.” Before he could say anything else, she hurried out the door.

When she’d agreed to come here, she’d known she had feelings for Byron, but she hadn’t known they’d run this deep. Lilya had always believed, and had told Evangeline and Anatol as much, that a courtesan couldn’t be a courtesan if she were in love. Had coming here changed everything as she’d feared it had at the transport station? Would she ever be able to go back to her old life at the Temple of Dreams and have sex with men she didn’t love?

Because she was seriously beginning to fear that what she felt for Byron was, indeed, that.
Love
.

Scary, chaotic, reckless love that made a woman blind and vulnerable to a man.

She was practically running by the time she got to the front door, her steps echoing into the foyer. She heard Alek call her name, but she ignored him, closing the door behind her and making her way to the late autumn–dead garden and the stone bench she’d found that morning. Sinking down onto it, she tipped her face to the sky. Away from the city there was less pollution to cloud the skies, and the moon and stars seemed to shine more brightly here.

Someone sat down beside her and she sighed, not wanting company. She looked over and saw Alek’s profile in the evening light. He held her pelisse on his lap. Immediately she shivered, realizing she’d forgotten it and hadn’t even felt the cold of the evening in the tangle of her emotions.

He eased it around her shoulders and she snuggled into it gratefully. “Thank you.”

“I saw you rush out of the house.” He flipped up the collar of his coat against the chill in the air and then stuck his hands in his pockets. “Figured you might want your pelisse. There’s a kiss of winter in tonight’s air. Snow will fall soon.”

“I just needed to be alone for a while.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

She let out a slow breath. “No.” Maybe it was better if she wasn’t alone with her thoughts. They were darker than the skies tonight. Anyway, it was Byron’s presence she was running from, not Alek’s.

They sat in silence for a long time. Then, finally, Alek asked, “If you were in Milzyr tonight, what would you be doing?”

“It’s Lansday evening, right? I’d be at a concert with Edgar. He loves them. We go every week.” She glanced at him. “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not all about the sex, Alek. My clients are lonely men. They want me more for companionship than anything else, friendship, conversation, not only for carnal pleasure.”

“I
am
surprised.”

“Most are.”

“Byron tells me all men fall in love with you.”

She snorted, looking down at the stone pathway that wound through the garden. “Byron is overly impressed with me.”

“Or maybe he’s just talking about himself.” Alek murmured it while looking up at the moon.

“In love with me?” Lilya jerked at his comment, her bemused smile fading. “Impossible.”

Alek’s attention locked on her. “Why do you say that?”

She shrugged, a lump growing in the back of her throat. “He can have any woman in the province. All he needs to do is crook a finger. He would pick an educated, cultured woman. He wouldn’t pick a courtesan.”

“He spent ten months nursing one back to health.”

She tipped her head a little at him and tried to smile. “I wasn’t a courtesan back then.”
No, you were just trash, thrown away
.

Alek made a low sound of disagreement. “I guess maybe I know Byron a little better than you do. By the way, you may be lacking a formal education, but you are
not
lacking intelligence.”

Eager to change the subject, she said, “He said you’ve been friends since childhood.”

“We’ve gone through school, numerous girlfriends, and the loss of our families together. He’s more than just a friend.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence. There was a note of wistfulness sometimes in Alek that she recognized both in herself and in the men she took as clients, loneliness. Yet Alek’s particular brand of loneliness wasn’t like that of the clients she took on; he wasn’t quite as . . . hopeless. He didn’t have any social awkwardness that prevented him from meeting women. No shyness or lack of confidence. Relationships were something he apparently avoided by choice.

Maybe his loneliness was a choice too; she didn’t know him well enough to make a judgment on that issue.

She liked Alek, but her feelings were nothing compared to what she felt for Byron. Could she be intimate with Alek now, after the full impact of what she felt for Byron had hit her? Would it be enough to see Alek as a client? Would it be enough to merely like him, to feel compassion for him, maybe see a little of herself in him?