Page 79 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

“Where did Dimitri go?”she asked, rubbing her eyes.“He wasn’t there when I woke up.”

Oleg grunted.“Probably walked back to town in the middle of the night.We’ve got, what, five kilometers to the bus stop?He’s a madman.”

“Guess he didn’t want to wait around for the tea party,” someone joked.

They all laughed.

I didn’t.

They gathered their things—shoes, coats, someone’s random scarf—and shuffled out the front door in a fog of grumbling and hungover mutiny.The door shut behind them with a solid thunk.

And then—finally—silence.

Just me.The smell of stale booze.The dacha, wrecked like an afterthought.Ashes, bottles, blankets on the floor.

And no Dimitri.

I sat up slowly, heart hammering, dread pressing on my ribs like a weight.

Where the hell had he gone?

* * *

The silence was deafening.

I stood in the wreckage of the living room, staring at the mess.Empty bottles, crushed cigarette packs.A filthy ashtray was tipped over on its side, scattering gray flakes across the table like snow.Makeup and who knows what else smeared the couch cushions.Someone had spilled pickled tomatoes on the carpet—it reeked of vinegar.

I couldn’t sit in it anymore.Not in the smell, not in the mess, not in the consequences of my own damn cowardice.

So I started cleaning.

I moved like a man underwater, slow, fogged, and numb.I stacked bottles into a crate, wincing every time a glass clinked too loud.My head pounded.My hands trembled.I scraped cigarette butts into a tin, sweeping ash off the table with the edge of my sleeve.

It was stupid, pointless.A hangover ritual to distract from the actual damage.But I needed something to do.Something besides thinking.

Because if I thought about it too much, I’d remember the look in Dimitri’s eyes last night before he retreated to the bedroom.That flicker of pain.The way he’d smiled like he was already disappearing.

I hadn’t followed him, and I hadn’t stopped the others.I’d let Larisa—fucking Larisa—walk around wearing his shirt like she had any right to it.Like she’d earned a place next to him.

Maybe I had stood still too long.Maybe I’d let the tide sweep him away while I clutched a tray of vodka shots like a good little host.

God, I was such a fool.

I moved into the kitchen next.The sink was full of cloudy glasses and dirty plates.Someone had left half a herring head in the pan.I dumped it in the bin, turned on the tap, and tried to scrub away every scent, every stain, and every mistake.

But the worst mess was still behind the bedroom door.

I hesitated.

My hand hovered over the doorknob like it might bite me.

And then I opened it.

The room was dark and stale, curtains drawn tight.The bed appeared like it had lost a fight.Blankets tangled, pillows on the floor.One corner of the sheet hung down like it was trying to flee.

And there it was.

His shirt.Crumpled on the edge of the bed like a discarded secret.

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