Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm. Instead, he leans in to kiss me.

  “Not the lipstick!” the makeup artist warns.

  “Even better.” He grins devilishly and begins placing soft kisses along my collarbone just above each of the diamonds. He wraps his arms more tightly around me, drawing our bodies together. I don’t push him away, but I offer no encouragement.

  “You’re all dismissed,” he tells my attendants, keeping his focus on me.

  “But her hair. . . “ The hairstylist sounds worried.

  “I promise not to touch a single strand.” Dimitri grins at me. “That’s not what I’ve got my sights set on anyway.” He looks down at my chest, and annoyance pulses through me. I look to Zhenya for help. She just scowls at us as though we’re two naughty kids.

  Dimitri’s lips move expertly across my neck as everyone makes their way toward the door. He leads me slowly toward the toilet. He must have something important he wants to tell me if he would go through all this trouble to get me into the toilet.

  Dimitri’s hands are everywhere. My heart hammers in response. He doesn’t seem in much of a hurry to get to the other side of the room. Instead, the walk is agonizingly slow as his lips make love to my neck and his strong hands caress skin that craves touch. The unfulfilled attraction winds me tighter and tighter until I fear I’m going to snap.

  We step through the door to the bathroom, and I push him away.

  “Don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly. “That’s why no one believes this marriage is sincere. You cringe every time I touch you.”

  “I’m not scared of you,” I lie. But my shaking hands betray me.

  “How are you?” He gazes deep into my eyes, concern and sympathy etched into his normally rigid features.

  “Not good, Dimitri. It’s been a pretty terrible day.” I don’t want to discuss my well-being with him. “What do you want, anyway?”

  He places a finger to his lips and whispers. “It’s not about what I want. I’m here to help you get what you want.” He leans against the door.

  I sit down on the toilet seat to give myself a few inches of distance from him.

  “I don’t want any of this,” I hiss at him.

  “Clearly,” he says, arms folded across his chest. “Did you know your bathroom is connected to the Peredacha? It’s a good thing Zhenya turned on the shower before your conversation. It was just muffled enough to be unintelligible.”

  “That’s not possible, there’s no blinking light in there,” I say, my stomach lurching at the thought.

  “How archaic do you think the system is? The lights were never for functionality. At first they gave a false sense of privacy, a false illusion that you could turn the system on and off. Now they’re used to make people feel like they’re constantly under our control. Never rely on the lights to know whether you’re being recorded.” His voice is hard.

  “So I’m being recorded in the shower and in the bath?” Heat spreads up and down my arms as the violation registers.

  “It’s a coveted assignment inside the intelligence agency.” A hint of anger breaks through his control. “It’s part of the reason I asked for the privacy block.”

  “Wonderful. And this room is safe? I assume since we’re talking.” My eyes are starting to burn with tears.

  He nods. “No one wants to see you in here.”

  “I think I’ve had enough of your useful information for one day.” I reach for the tissue paper, blinking furiously, and dab under my eyes. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m trying to help,” he says slowly.

  “Good.” I snap. “Then tell me everywhere I am and am not being recorded.”

  He deliberates. “It’s not nearly as simple as a blinking light. Think of where you would have chosen to install the system, and where you would not. Closets, storage areas, utility rooms, toilets could be safe. In more remote parts of the country, they never installed the Peredacha at all. It’s always safest to assume they are watching.”

  A cold chill runs up my arms as I mentally review a lifetime of intrusions. “What do you really want Dimitri?”

  He looks down at his feet. “I thought maybe we should practice so our affection is believable.”

  “Practice?” I sound borderline hysterical. “You think feeling me up in the toilet is going to make this night go better?”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting, and you know it.” He frowns at me. “There’s a lot riding on tonight, and it would be stupid for us to go into it without a plan.”

  “Why do you care about the orphanage?” I ask. “You were clearly not opposed to selling those children.”

  “Don’t try to guess what I’m opposed to,” he warns. “Your father is obsessed with this marriage. The engagement has not gone well. The international media reports that we lack chemistry. His opponents whisper about this being a political marriage. And that perception won’t be improving anytime soon, no matter how many pretty dresses you wear. So tonight, we have a lot to gain or a lot to lose.”

  “I think you mean you have a lot to gain, and I have a lot to lose. Even if I fail, you’ll continue doing whatever horrible things you do for my father, and the two of you will rise in power.” My level of disgust over his actions has not diminished as the day has worn on. It’s only given me more time to stew over his crimes.

  “I tried to keep you out of this, but Vladimir was getting more and more frustrated with our failures on camera. I thought about trying to seduce you, but that seemed unlikely to work, so I decided to gain your trust. Then at least you would understand what we’re up against, and we could be . . . allies.” He falters.

  “Allies?” The word is rage inducing. I stand, closing the gap between us and grab his shirt, wrinkling it in my fist. “Not friends? Not soulmates? Not lovers? Not family? Allies?” I search his face for signs of remorse. I remember all the things we were, and all the things he promised me we would be. But we haven’t been any of that since Sasha died. Allies? It’s like he has handed me a counterfeit ruble and expects me to celebrate its worthlessness.

  “It’s all I can ask.” At least he has the courage not to look away as he says the words. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly before fixing me with a forlorn gaze. “I’m trying to be honest with you. My hands are dirty, Yulia. And my soul is black. But I promise to protect you and do what’s right for you.” He’s hesitant as he waits for my response.

  “All right,” I consent. “Allies.” For now.

  “I’m on your side,” he whispers.

  “No.” I shake my head. “You chose your side years ago, and it wasn’t mine. You’re on your own side. And for the time being, it suits you that I’m there with you. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

  He stares at me intently, his hesitation full of old words needing a voice. But in the end, he only sighs. “Please, just tell me what you want me to do. We need some sort of agreement or rules to make this work. We can’t keep fighting against each other.” He looks tortured, and I find a small measure of power in it.

  Fighting with him is exactly what I want. He owes me a good fight. But he’s right, and that annoys me even more.

  “Fine.” I concede. “Don’t lie to me or keep things from me.” I issue my first demand.

  He considers my request for a moment before responding, “I won’t lie to you, but you should be careful what you ask. You won’t like most of what you hear.”

  I nod, considering what else I need. “I won’t be sidelined by you at the orphanage, or anywhere else that matters. I’m not going to sit in a library drinking tea while you do whatever you do. If you want me to be an ally, you have to treat me like one.”

  He frowns. “I won’t put you in a dangerous situation if there is any possible way to avoid it, and I won’t apologize for it. So if that feels like sidelining to you, you’ll have to get over it. But I want your input and your talents. I want you to make an impact in ways th
at matter. I won’t stand in your way once the orphanage is secured.”

  I’m tempted to shrink away from my final request. Instead, I stand taller until we’re at eye level.

  “You treat me like I’m your possession. You’re arrogant and aggressive or dismissive whenever you touch me. I want to be treated with kindness and respect,” I tell him.

  He meets my gaze. “And you’re rigid and icy when I touch you. I’m aggressive because I’m trying to force a reaction out of you.” He moves a step closer, daring me to move away.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to react when you touch me,” I admit and then regret it.

  “But you used to.” He brushes his fingertip along my forehead, placing a stray lock of hair back in its place. “We’ve proven in the past that we can do this.”

  My skin tingles beneath his touch, and I stiffen in response. He steps closer, erasing the distance between us. Then he leans his forehead against mine, cupping my face in his hand. It’s too much. Too intimate. Too tender.

  “I don’t want you to touch me when there’s no reason.” The words tumble out. He straightens, and his face is the unreadable mask again. “Save it for tonight. I’ll respond when it matters.”

  “How do you know it will be believable?” he asks.

  I know it will be believable because resisting him is a constant battle. All it will take is a slip of my defenses, and I’ll melt in his hands. But I don’t want him to know that.

  “I’ll pretend I’m with someone else.” I’ll pretend I’m with Dima. To his credit, he shows no visible response.

  “I think that’s everything,” I say. “We should finish getting ready.” I move toward the door, and he blocks it.

  “Not quite yet. You’ve asked for four things. I only need one.” He’s so close I feel like we are two magnets at the point right before the pull becomes too much and they have no option but to crash into each other, their worlds becoming one.

  “I want your trust.” His voice is low and pleading.

  “No. How could you ask that after what you’ve done?” I take a step back, but he grabs my arm, blocking my retreat.

  “I’m afraid for your safety. Your father is dangerous and reckless. He puts you at risk. I need you to believe me when I tell you that the Peredacha is in your bathroom. You must not have suspicious conversations. I need you to trust me when I ask you to follow my lead in a conversation with your father. I know more of this world than you do, and more than I wish to. Please, can you trust me with your safety, even if you can’t trust me with anything else?”

  I don’t know why I believe him. It’s probably foolish or sentimental, but I do. This alliance is temporary anyway. I don’t think this concession will hurt me.

  “Khorosho. I’ll trust you when it comes to my personal safety.”

  “Good, then you can’t leave looking like that.” He steps uncomfortably close. I can smell his aftershave, and I long to breathe air that doesn’t smell like him.

  “I look just like I did when we came in here.”

  “Yes, but if we’re in your toilet having a conversation, that is highly suspicious. If it looks like we’ve been doing something else . . . it’s understandable.” He reaches his hands toward me and I step back, pinning myself against the sink.

  “This falls under the category of necessary touching. So just give me a minute, and I’ll have you out of here.” I nod and look toward the wall.

  He places his hands underneath my hair on either side of my head and shakes, effectively disrupting the perfectly placed strands. Then he gathers some of the fabric from my dress and crushes it between his hands, giving it a slight wrinkle. Finally, he untucks his shirt, removes his jacket, unbuttons a couple of his buttons, and loosens his belt.

  “That’s disgusting,” I tell him

  “This world is disgusting,” he replies with fire burning in his eyes. “Now kiss me here.” He points to his neck. “And here.” He gestures to the skin exposed by his open collar. “And here.” His finger brushes against his lips. “Just enough to leave some lipstick”

  “I’m not touching you.” I push him back, and he moves closer.

  “Yulia, I’m trying.” His frustration seeps through his mask. “I’ve risked so much today to give you everything I possibly can. I know it’s not enough and you deserve more. But it’s the best I have.” He doesn’t move, but somehow he fills this small space until I feel like he’s everywhere.

  “You won’t leave here without this looking believable. So just do it quickly, so this can be over.” He gestures between us. I can see that he means it. I search his face for desire and see only how much he wants to be away from me. That somehow makes me feel safer.

  I take a tentative step toward him, feeling completely in control until I get close enough to smell that familiar scent. I rest my hands on his shoulders. Something about being snuggled up into this particular neck always made me feel alive in a way that I had never felt before and have not felt since.

  I’m on the edge of a cliff. If I leap, it wouldn’t even feel like a jump; more like a fall into a deep pool of oblivion. I hesitate, and he mistakes it for something more tender than it is. Dimitri places his hand gently in the small of my back and leans his cheek against mine, encouraging me. I close my eyes. Practicing. Wondering if I can actually do it. Can I unlock my love for Dima and safely find my way back again? Can love be boxed and unboxed like sweaters in the spring and fall?

  I press my lips onto his neck and am overwhelmed by the pull stirring inside me. I don’t pull away quickly. I give my lips time to linger, and Dimitri grasps the thin fabric on my back. The longing is a disgrace, a sin, a folly. I tell myself this as I look into his eyes and see them foggy with want. I close my eyes again and press my lips into his chest, tasting him with the tip of my tongue. His hand closes around my waist. And by the time my lips reach his, they are not the only ones at work.

  His kiss is slow, and his lips are soft against mine. These are not the arrogant kisses he gives me for the cameras. They’re vulnerable and uncertain. Both a question and an invitation. Do I want more? I don’t want to want more, but that long-denied chemistry I was so sure had died between us seems to have only been hibernating. Before I can decide if I want more, he offers it. His lips move against mine more urgently. His hands are in my hair, and I can’t understand why my arms are wrapped around him, pulling him closer as though distance is disgraceful.

  No. The voice in my head protests silently before it makes its way to my mouth. In those few moments I grasp at him, desperate to feel that old part of me that died when Sasha died, when Dima left and I was completely alone. I’ve been alone for so long.

  The tears that have been threatening all day pour down my cheeks. And still, my lips refuse to acknowledge the word I must say. No. This is wrong. He is wrong, and I must be even more broken than I thought to want him.

  “Don’t cry.” He wipes my cheeks and tries to soothe me in between kisses. “It’s okay, Yulia.” His voice is hushed in that sacred tone we used to share. I know what words he will say before they leave his mouth, and I hate him for it. “Everything is going to be okay,” he whispers to me again and leans in to kiss away my pain.

  But this time I find myself. “No!” I push him back. The last time he said those words to me was the day Sasha died. He promised me then that everything would be okay. Nothing was ever okay again, and it won’t be okay now. I don’t want empty words.

  His eyes are dark with concern, and his thumbs still stroke my cheeks, wiping at the tears that won’t stop flowing.

  “No,” I tell him again. Dimitri nods and takes a step back.

  I turn from him and lean against the sink. My shoulders shake as I sob silently. I’m crying for all of them: Mama and Sasha, the children I can’t save, and the ones I must.

  If I’m being honest, I cry for myself, too. I cry because this is my life. I’m so desperate to feel something that I’ll accept this.

  “Yulia,
please don’t cry.” Pain laces his plea as he rubs my shoulder with his thumb.

  I shake it off. He won’t console me again. He won’t fill me with false promises, and he won’t be absolved from his crimes because of a few nice words and kisses. I will pull myself together for the children and for myself, but not for him.

  Like it or not, tonight I need him. Those children need help, and I can’t do it without him. I grab the tissue and dab at my eyes. His are etched in deep concern.

  “I’m sorry.” I apologize and attempt to smile at him. He reaches his arm toward my waist, and I step back. “It’s been a hard day. I’m just overly emotional. I shouldn’t have . . .” I don’t know how to finish. We both know it wasn’t just me. But he doesn’t correct me.

  “What can I do?” he asks softly.

  “Help me get the orphanage tonight,” I say, finally staunching the flow of tears.

  “I promise I will. I’ll do whatever it takes.” He is so sincere, I wish I believed him.

  I take a deep breath, wishing we had an American bathroom with a tub, toilet, sink and mirror all together so I could see how much damage I have done to my hair and makeup.

  “How bad do I look?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me in a way that once again fills the room with unwanted longing.

  “I’ve wanted to give you something.” He clears his throat. “But I never knew how to do it. I’ve been carrying it around for a month.” The always calm Dimitri suddenly looks nervous.

  He fumbles for the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and then pulls out a small, familiar leather pouch. I recognize it immediately. Dima carried it with him everywhere when he first came to live with us. He used to rub it like a baby rubs their blanket as though it could somehow soothe the ache of loss.

  He reaches inside and pulls out a thin, tarnished gold band. The edges are worn from wear. “It was my mother’s. And before her, my grandmother’s. I want you to have it.” He reaches for my hand, and I pull it back reflexively before remembering that we need to be on good terms tonight. He tries again, and this time I allow him to take my right hand in his. He slides the band next to the enormous diamond he gave me when we announced the engagement. “That ring is the one Vladimir wanted you to have.” He runs his thumb over the cold rock. Engagement rings aren’t even really a part of our culture. Most often, we just purchase simple gold bands and wear them on our right hands, but my father insisted that the extravagant ring better suited the image he wanted us to portray. “This is what I want to give you.” He presses his lips to the metal for what feels like an eternity.