Page 31 of One Last Shot

I turn and leave the room, trying to imagine what life without Petra will even feel like.

This boarding school and ski training is the only way for her to achieve her dreams,I remind myself.If you really do care about her, let her go.

* * *

I come around the bend in the garden, resolved that I won’t tell Petra about the marriage. I’d have to reveal too much about the way our family’s history is intertwined, too much about my own feelings for her. I’d have to tell her that her father apparently loves her so much he’s willing to do whatever it takes to help her achieve her dreams, but respects her so little he essentially sold her off to do so.

When I reach the top of the ladder, Petra is on her hands and knees, lighting a candle. “What’s this?” I glance around the treehouse and notice other candles and a blanket she’s kneeling on. The whole scene is very romantic, and I keep my face expressionless so she won’t see how this scene is everything I want, right when I know for sure I can’t have it.

Her skirt is bunched up around her thighs and I know my eyes pause there for a minute, just like they lingered on her body earlier in the library. I slide my gaze up to her belly, focusing on that sliver of skin between the waistband of her denim skirt and the tight button-down sweater she’s wearing.How am I going to say no to this?

“I wanted to be able to see you in this dark, old place,” she says.

In my momentary internal war with myself, I forgot I’d even asked her a question. I give her a small smile because if I wasn’t here to end things, this would be a perfect scenario. God, how I wish I could at least kiss her before having to back away, but that would make what I’m about to do even worse.

“Well, are you coming in or just going to hang out on the ladder all night?”

I plant my hands on the floor and pull myself up into our secret hideaway. It’s cramped up here now that we’re fully grown, so I sit cross-legged on the blanket facing her. I need to keep some distance so I can keep my head.

For a minute we just stare at each other. I’ve tried to hide my true feelings this summer, but they seem to have saturated the space anyway. She looks at me like she can read my mind.

I reach behind me and grasp the book I’ve brought her. “Here,” I say, shoving the book toward her. “I found it for you.”

“Oh my gosh, Sasha!” Her voice carries the notes of delight I’d hoped it would. I spent too fucking long finding that book for her—months of searching through used book shops in half the cities in Russia. I’ve had it since I came home a month ago, but wanted to give it to her as a going away present—something to remember me by. She gazes at the cover like she’s soaking it in. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why would you even want a first edition ofWar and Peacein Russian? You don’t know how to read it.” This fact has made her a pawn in my father’s games.

“I told you,” she says, like I don’t listen to a word she says, “it was my mother’s favorite book.” She glances at the cover again, then continues like she often does—giving me small snippets of information, doling them out like treats. And like a fool, I collect them, hoping that one day I’ll have a complete picture of who she is and what makes her tick. “Mama had one just like this and she lost count of how many times she’d read it. It was practically falling apart. But I don’t know what happened to it after she died. It’s like it disappeared off our bookshelf.”

A shiver runs up my spine as the darkness surrounding us seeps into me. I know exactly where that tattered book is. I’ve seen one matching its description on a shelf in my father’s private study many times and thought nothing of it. Another piece of her family he’s taken from her and she doesn’t even know it.

“Well, now you have your own copy.” My words are gruff, full of finality. I shouldn’t be running all over Russia doing her bidding when I’m supposed to be focusing on my hockey career. Half the reason I joined up in the KHL was to get the hell away from her so I could stop obsessing over her. It clearly didn’t work.

I’ve never stopped thinking about those dark curls I want to dig my hands into, those lips I need to taste, that sharp tongue I want to feel on my skin. From her ridiculous body to her inquisitive mind to her guarded heart, there is no part of her that does not fascinate me. And if I don’t get away from her, I’m going to do something about it, thus ruining her future.

“Thank you,” she says as she hugs the book to her chest before stretching to set it down at the edge of the blanket. When she turns back toward me, she catches me staring at her again.

I open my mouth to tell her this is over, but no words come out. The way she watches my face, I can sense that she knows how much I’m hurting.

“What’s wrong?”

I swallow. “Nothing.” I feel jittery, like my muscles are spasming and I have as little control over them as I have over my emotions. I fucking hate this feeling. Is this what it feels like to love someone? Reckless and powerless and foolish?

She scoots toward me until we’re only a foot apart. “Sasha, you’re my best friend and I need you to stop lying to me.”

What can I say? That wanting her is a sickness my body can’t fight off? That as inappropriate as it is for me to lust after the younger sister of my dead best friend, I can’t seem to stop myself? That until this summer I never dreamed she’d feel the same way, but that I know things are shifting and that even though thiscouldbe our chance, it can’t be?

“What’s wrong?” she asks again, leaning in close enough that my body can feel her even though we’re not touching.

I breathe deeply through my nose, demanding control of myself. I will not think with my dick, there is too much on the line here. For her future, and for mine.

“Petra,” I choke out, wondering if this is the last time I’ll be able to call her by her name, “nothing can happen between us.”

She blinks in surprise and her lips part slightly. I can’t take my eyes off them. I could just lean forward the tiniest bit and finally know what it’s like to taste her.But you can’t.

“Why are you doing this, Sasha?” she asks. I wonder if the way her voice cracks is her holding herself together.

“You’re a child, Petra.” The condescending tone surprises me, even though the words are coming out of my own mouth. “I don’t see you like that.” Every fiber of my being stretches toward her even as my words push her away. But I think that sounded believable enough?

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