Page 32 of Twisted Pact
I pull out a volume of Dostoevsky and flip through pages covered in margin notes. Alexei’s handwriting is neat and precise. Not what you expect from a man who breaks bones. His annotations show engagement with the text rather than just academic exercise.
“Find anything you like?”
I turn. He’s in the doorway, blocking the exit like it’s nothing. Those blue-gray eyes watch my every move, but he doesn’t look angry about me invading his space. Just curious.
“You read Dostoevsky.” I skip the apology.
“Guilty.”
“And youunderstoodhim, apparently.”
“Is that shocking?”
“A little.” I shelve it and pull out another. “Most criminals aren’t literary scholars.”
“Most grad students don’t dismantle criminal enterprises.” He walks closer. “Seems we both have hidden depths, Zaika.”
I turn to face him with a collection of French poetry in my hands. “Where did you learn this?”
“Private tutors. My father believed in education, even for future criminals.”
“That’s… progressive.”
“He was complicated.” Alexei brushes my fingers as he takes the book, opening to a ribboned page. “This one’s my favorite. Baudelaire. ‘The Albatross.’”
“About the poet being like a giant bird that’s graceful in flight but clumsy on land,” I recall. “French lit. Sophomore year.”
“What'd you think?”
“I think Baudelaire was self-indulgent. Artists aren’t birds; they’re just people who want an excuse for being bad at normal life.”
He laughs, low and real. It strips the danger off him for a second, and I hate that I like it.
“What else do you read?”
“Whatever hooks me. Art history, mostly. Philosophy when I’m feeling pretentious.”
“And the poetry?”
“Helps me sleep.”
“You read French poetry to fall asleep?”
“You say that like it’s weird.”
“It is weird. Normal people count sheep or take melatonin.”
“I’m not normal people, Zaika.”
The wordZaikaslides warm through my stomach. I hate how my body answers.
“No. You’re definitely not.” I back toward the door. “Thanks for the tour.”
“Anytime.”
I head back to my room and start unpacking. It’s something to keep me from thinking about Alexei’s notes in Dostoevsky and the fact that he reads poetry to fall asleep.
Every time I try to fit him into the box I made for him—cold, arrogant, and dangerous—he proves me wrong.
