Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 113324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
At least, not with Filip.
When Sevastyan’s fists balled, I marched away from both men. Squaring my shoulders, chin lifted, I made my way to Kovalev, my heels sounding abnormally loud in the silent hall.
He was standing at the head of a lengthy table that was covered with dazzling candles, china, and silver. He glanced uncertainly from me to Filip, so I gave him a ready smile. “This is incredible, Paxán. Thank you.” My guiltless demeanor seemed to defuse the situation; conversations resumed.
When Kovalev pulled out the chair to his right for me, he said under his breath, “Anything amiss?”
I murmured back, “Not at all.”
Filip followed, taking a seat beside me. With a laugh, he muttered, “That was awkward, huh?”
When Sevastyan returned to the table and took the seat opposite me, his face was his usual unreadable mask, but that muscle in his jaw was twitching.
Kovalev introduced me to the rest of our dinner companions, more than two dozen men in their twenties and thirties—Yuri, Boris, Kirill, Gleb, then I started losing track. They were a rough-looking lot, but they all appeared to hero-worship Kovalev. Only two other women were seated, Olga and Inya, long-term girlfriends of a couple of the brigadiers.
After introductions, what seemed like an army of servers began conveying platters, while others poured vodka into glittering crystal shot glasses. Though I wasn’t used to being on this end of service, I forced myself to relax.
“A toast,” Kovalev called, drink in hand. “To my lovely daughter. Who found me against all odds, who toiled and fought to get what she wanted.”
Filip called, “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
When the dinner guests raised their glasses, I did the same, then brought it to my lips to sip—
Everyone shot theirs, then turned to me. I recalled it was considered rude to put a glass with alcohol back on the table. With a shrug, I downed mine too, and cheers broke out. I couldn’t help but grin, glancing at Sevastyan, who simply stared at me.
I could’ve sworn he’d been jealous of Filip earlier, but if he gave a damn, then why hadn’t he bothered to come get me from my room in the first place?
In any case, I refused to let him ruin this for me. Here I was at an authentic Russian banquet, drinking vodka with my father’s extended . . . clan. I was in the land of my birth, ensconced in a former tsar’s home.
I gazed up, marveling at the frescoes above us. This absolutely looked like the dining room of a tsar. I realized I’d never felt history like this. Which took some of the sting out of my involuntary withdrawal from school.
Tonight, my good mood was bulletproof.
Another toast followed: “Za vas, Natalya Kovaleva!” To you. This time I got my shot down in time with the table. I savored the burn, pleasantly warmed.
When a zakuska—a spread of miscellaneous appetizers—was served, Filip leaned over. “This is called a za-kus-ka.”
Sevastyan said, “Natalie studied Russian—I’m sure she knows what it is.”
I cast him a quick look of appreciation. Having every dish explained to me would’ve gotten old.
Filip’s affable mien never faded, even as he said, “It’s merely etiquette, Sevastyan. To be welcoming to a guest—escorting her from her room and such.”
Thanks for reminding me.
The two men stared each other down. The tense moment was broken by another serving: oysters topped with plentiful caviar from the Volga Delta. Then a fish course followed.
I took a bite of heavenly baked sole, making a sound of delight; Sevastyan’s eyes were on me.
I shot another vodka; his eyes were on me.
I listened to a story Filip seemed determine to whisper to me; Sevastyan clenched a fist beside his plate. He could assure me that there was no us all he wanted to, but . . .
Actions speak louder than words, Siberian. And his focus on me was warming me as much as the vodka.
When servers brought yet another dish, Kovalev announced, “In honor of Natalie’s home of Nebraska.”
It was corn soufflé! I grinned at him. “I love it.” I was beginning to sound crazy tipsy.
Then I felt Sevastyan’s dark gaze on me yet again. Was he remembering the cornfield? Pinning me in the dirt? Meeting his eyes, I downed another shot.
Kovalev turned to Sevastyan. “You’re not eating, Aleksandr?”
He straightened. “Perhaps I’m feeling the trip.”
Filip quipped, “Or your age.”
With his quiet intensity, Sevastyan said, “I hold my own.”
In a merry tone, Kovalev said, “There now, lads.” He turned to me. “I think our clever Filip sometimes forgets the Siberian was a bare-knuckle prizefighter for many years.”
I raised my brows. When I’d first seen Sevastyan, I’d guessed he was a fighter. That would explain the scars on his fingers, his broken nose. I recalled the many times I’d seen Sevastyan ball his fists. For a fighter, that must be the default factory setting.
When I thought of all the men who’d struck that noble face of his, I wanted to touch him, to smooth my fingers over his skin. I was trying to imagine him in the ring, dealing pain, when another course appeared.
Dessert. There were baked apples, fruit pastels—a kind of Russian Turkish delight—and sirniki, a cheese pancake with a side of honey for dipping. As soon as my first pastel touched my tongue, I rolled my eyes with bliss.
After dessert, drinks reigned and laughter grew boisterous. It was bad etiquette not to finish an opened bottle of vodka, so everyone politely pounded shot after shot—well, everyone except for Sevastyan. After the toasts, his glass went untouched.
Paxán recounted hilarious tales of his attempts at leisure. Sailing? The boat was now an artificial reef. Breeding horses? He’d find that wily escaped stallion one of these days.
I laughed until my eyes watered, admitting that I’d thought he would have white tigers and a bear—and a diamond-encrusted toilet, which made Kovalev double over.
The guy named Gleb taught me a Russian tongue twister. Everyone laughed at my buzzed rendition, but I was a good goddamned sport, so I feigned a quick curtsy. I saw that even Sevastyan’s customary scowl had changed to a look of something like fascination, as if I were a creature he’d never seen in the wild before.