Page 47 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

But I wasn’t in the mood to laugh.I wasn’t even in the mood to talk.The bruise on Dimitri’s neck had faded beneath his collar, but the ache in my chest had not.

We filed out into the late afternoon sun, the light soft and golden, bouncing off the cobblestones like it was showing off.The city had the gall to be beautiful.The air smelled of wet stone and thawing dirt, like spring was trying too hard.People were already making plans for their evenings.Beer, sausages, radio music loud enough to drown out politics.It felt like the world was waking up.

But inside me, it was still the end of February.That stretch of bitter nothingness between what was and what could never be.

Dimitri walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed now and then, but not close enough.

“Good day,” Vera called, falling in step with us from behind, all lipstick and windblown red curls.She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek like we were something out of a Parisian film.“You smell like a soggy blanket.”

I smirked despite myself.“It’s called ‘factory chic.’Very in season.”

She turned to Dimitri.“And you.You’re not saying much.”

He gave her a polite nod.“Tired,” he said, eyes darting sideways at me.Not tired.Guarded.

Then I heard it: the cough and rattle of an ancient Lada engine.The blue Samara pulled up to the curb like some cursed chariot, and my stomach dropped.Again.That damn car haunted me.

Dimitri’s father sat behind the wheel, jaw tight, expression unreadable.Always the same look, and he was always watching.

“Your ride’s here,” I said, voice sharper than I meant.

Dimitri glanced at me, then at his father, and I saw it.The flicker of guilt, of the apology he wasn’t allowed to speak.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I mumbled, already hating how pathetic it sounded.

He nodded.Not a word.Just got in the car and shut the door.The Samara pulled away, trailing exhaust and something worse—resentment, frustration, the awful weight of could-have-been.

I stared after it, my fists clenched in my coat pockets, until I felt Vera’s hand curl around my arm.

“Walk?”she asked, her tone too casual to be innocent.

I nodded, grateful.The weather was too nice to get on the train and sulk.

We walked in silence for a while.Past street vendors packing up boiled corn and pirated cassette tapes, past peeling posters and cracked walls with slogans long since meaningless.Leningrad looked tired, but there was beauty in its defiance.I used to feel the same way, but I didn’t anymore.

A few blocks in, Vera said quietly, “You’re really depressed.”

I didn’t answer.

“It’s because of Dimitri, isn’t it?”

I grunted something that might have been a yes, or a groan, or a sigh through my teeth.

She didn’t let up.“Is it because he’s been distant?”

“No,” I said flatly.“It’s because his fucking father never lets him out of his sight.Ever since Sanctuary, it’s been the same thing.He drops him off in the morning, then he picks Dimitri up at night, like he’s thirteen years old with a bedtime and a curfew.”I looked up at the sky, as if it might explain anything.“It’s like the man knows.Like he’s doing it on purpose.”

Vera stopped walking so suddenly I nearly yanked her forward by accident.

I turned, confused.“What?”

She was staring at me, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a wicked smile.

“I have a plan.”

ChapterFourteen

Dimitri

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