Page 63 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Petyr slipped an arm around her waist and leaned in with a smile.“Maybe we’ll start talking baby names.”

That did it.

The buzzing in my ears turned to a roar.My throat clenched, my hands itched to break something, and I turned away fast—too fast—toward my father’s battered old blue Lada.My boots scraped on the concrete.

“Dimitri!”Petyr called behind me.“You don’t mind dropping Mira off, do you?”

I stopped just long enough to scowl over my shoulder.“Of course not.”

He didn’t catch the sarcasm.Or maybe he did, but pretended he didn’t.

Mira slipped into the passenger seat beside me without a word.I didn’t wait for the Smirnov’s driver to finish shutting their polished rear doors.I started the engine and tore away, tires chirping against the damp pavement.

I was seething.My jaw hurt from clenching.My pulse was a jackhammer in my ears.Every little honk and shout from the streets just fed the fire.

“You’re going to kill us both,” Mira said quietly.

I blinked, realizing I’d been speeding like a madman down Ligovsky Prospekt, weaving through traffic like I had something to prove.I eased off the gas, but my hands were still strangling the wheel.

Then I glanced at her and did a double take.

Mira was crying.

Not loud, gasping sobs.Not the sort of tears meant to be seen.These were slow and soundless, the kind that carved through makeup and made everything ache just looking at them.

“Mira…” My voice cracked.“Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer right away.Just stared ahead, lashes wet, lips pressed tight.

Finally, she whispered, “You’re blind.Deaf, too.”

I blinked.“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But she just shook her head, wiping one cheek with the back of her hand.

“Make a right,” she murmured.

I did.

The rest of the ride was silent, except for the rustling of old seat fabric and the occasional thunk of the car hitting potholes.The Lada rattled like it was as angry as I was.

When we pulled up in front of her apartment building—a squat, faded block of gray—I put the car in park and turned to her, ready to press again, to ask what the hell that comment meant.

But she beat me to it.

“Is this even worth it anymore?”she asked, eyes still trained on the dashboard.Her voice was so soft I wasn’t sure I heard her right.

Then she opened the door, stepped out, and closed it with a hollow thud that left my ears ringing.

I thought about what she said and found myself repeating the same question.

“Is this worth it?”

ChapterNineteen

Petyr

I’d seen photographs in Ogonyok that looked less opulent than the Smirnovs’ dacha.

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