Page 70 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

When he finally broke away, we were both panting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against mine.“About Saturday.About leaving like that.I didn’t have a choice.”

I didn’t respond right away.My pulse was still pounding.I glanced down at his chest instead, then muttered, “Mira was very upset.”

Petyr shut his eyes.His entire face changed, like something inside him folded inward.

“I know,” he breathed.“But don’t worry about Mira.Or Vera.Or anything.Just… think about this weekend.”

He opened his eyes.They were fierce now, blazing.“Think about us.”

I kissed him this time.Slower.Deeper.Letting myself sink into the feeling of him, warm and alive and close.The scent of wool and machine oil clung to his shirt, but beneath it was something distinctly Petyr—a faint smell of pine soap and something sweeter, something I could never quite name.

His hands slid to my waist, and he pressed me gently against the door, his lips against mine.

When we finally parted, I didn’t want to leave.

“Do you know how many wicked things I’m going to do to you this weekend?”Petyr whispered.

ChapterTwenty-One

Dimitri

The engine clattered as Papa drove, the tires humming against the patched asphalt.I hadn’t said much since we left Leningrad, but I couldn’t stop smiling.My face hurt in a good way, like I’d been standing in the sun too long and had the tan to prove it.

Papa noticed.

“I haven’t seen you this happy in years,” he said, squinting at the road like it had offended him.“All these smiles just for three days in the woods?”

I shrugged, trying to act casual, but the corners of my mouth wouldn’t behave.“I just really need to get away.Enjoy some peace and quiet.No looms.No shouting, and no green wool for a hundred kilometers.”

Papa snorted.“It’s not a monastery, Dimitri.Factory dacha or not, there’ll be other workers.”

“Not this weekend,” I said, barely holding back the grin.“It’s my turn.All mine.”

The trees outside the car had turned from sickly city birch to healthier, taller pines.Their shadows flickered over the windshield in rhythmic stripes.Every few kilometers we passed a battered sign pointing to someone’s dacha, or a weather-beaten fence wrapped in rusted wire.I rolled down the window and breathed in the forest.Wet moss.Sap.Smoke from some unseen chimney.It smelled like freedom.

Papa glanced over at me.“Shame this dacha’s too far from where your mother is.You could’ve paid her a visit.”

I nodded, then leaned my head against the window.“Yeah… it is a shame.”

“I’ll drop off some things for her,” he said.“She asked for black bread and pickles.Probably won’t see her long.”

He was in a good mood, too.Looser in his shoulders.Chatty.Maybe he was just glad for a quiet weekend.Or maybe—

“Are you going to stay with her?”I asked, just to test the waters.

He shook his head quickly.“No.Got a few things going on in town.Can’t be out in the country all weekend.”

Which meant he was probably looking forward to having the apartment to himself.Rare luxury, that—being alone.Nobody watching.Nobody listening.No need for small talk or quiet pretending.

He launched into a story about some coworker, Gena or Gosha or something, who’d tried to impress a new supervisor by offering him salted fish and ended up reeking of brine for a week.I nodded and laughed in the right places, but my thoughts had drifted.

To him.

Petyr.

Just the two of us, alone for the first time.Not sneaking around in shadows or half-dressed in some storeroom or stealing moments like thieves.No clocks.No pressure.Just time with my man.

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