by Callie Hart
Pasha nods. There’s a fire in his voice that is setting the dusk ablaze. I wonder if he hears it himself. Every person here is hanging on the words coming out of his mouth. His tone commands attention. He speaks with authority, and demands respect. He speaks like he’s already been crowned king. “Shelta’s always told me her sister was dead. I have no idea how many of you knew otherwise, but Kezia, Sarah, as she’s now called, is alive and she’s being held hostage by the very man my mother helped to escape the clan. The same man I found assaulting a juvenile. For whatever reason, Lazlo has Sarah and he’s refusing to let her go until I accept the role of king.”
The murmuring grows louder and louder. Over the hubbub, a man cries, “Rex Pasha! Let’s do it here and now! Then let’s find the bastard and put an end to him.”
Another voice rises above the others, too. “Kezia’s a gadje. She’s no longer our concern!”
I can’t discern how many people agree or disagree with this statement, but dread coils in my stomach, making me feel queasy. What if they’ve changed their mind? What if the Rivins don’t even want Pasha to be their king anymore? He’s been gone for so long. The members of this family might be used to having Shelta make their decisions for them. God…if they don’t want Pasha anymore, and won’t crown him king, then…shit. What happens to Sarah? We still have no idea why Lazlo’s demanded such a strange request, but Pasha says he was firm. If Pasha doesn’t become king of the Roma, then Sarah will undoubtedly pay the price, and I can not live with that.
Beside me, Pasha holds his hands up, quieting the combination of conversation and disagreement that has erupted from his people, and everyone quickly falls silent. “I will not be crowned tonight. I won’t just demand the title because it was gifted to me years ago. You’ll get to speak again, for a third and final time. There isn’t time to gather all the other clans, so I’m going to let you alone make this decision. My brothers and sisters. Aunts and uncles. Hedge crawlers and hedonists.” The last two titles earn him a rumble of low laughter from the crowd.
Pasha grins as he continues. “Tomorrow night, you’ll get to cast your votes again. You can vote for me, help save Sarah, and bring Lazlo to justice once and for all. Or you can vote elsewhere. I’m sure I know of at least two other candidates who would like to throw their hats in the ring, and that’s fine by me. I trust you all. I trust you guys to make the right call.”
Pasha takes me by the hand and leads me down the final steps from the gathering hall, into the crowd. I feel small. Underdressed. Overdressed. Fuck, I can’t decide how I feel as we weave our way through the mass of bodies; there are so many eyes boring into me that I feel like I’m about to spontaneously go up in flames.
We reach Cleo, and the woman stands in front of Pasha, hands buried deep in her pockets. She bows her head, looking up at Pasha from beneath a silver grey, arched eyebrow. “You still haven’t told us what she’s doing here,” she says softly. “I think we’re due an explanation.”
She.
Cleo’s obviously referring to me. Just like with Shelta in the gathering room, her attention is focused solely on Pasha; she hasn’t even chanced a sly look at me. There’s no malice to her voice, but the question is firm. She wants an answer, and so does everyone else. The crowd draws in as Pasha looks around at them all, opening his mouth. I have no idea what he’s going to say. I have no clue what’s going to happen if the Rivin vitsa don’t like his answer. He squeezes my hand tightly, pulling me in to his side, and then he speaks with conviction.
“I brought her here because she is mine, and I am hers. She came because I came, and from now on…wherever one of us goes, the other follows.”
Two sentences. Simple sentences, really, but frankly they are terrifying. I manage to control my shock, mastering my features into an expression that I hope will pass as calm, but inside everything is spinning. Does he mean that? How can he sound so fucking sure? Of me? Of us, whatever we are?
Pasha’s explanation is met with utter silence. Cleo’s head slowly drifts to one side as she moves closer, looking up into Pasha’s eyes. He doesn’t waiver. Neither does he blink. A second passes, and then another, long, painful second, and then finally Cleo, dressed in elegant disarray, turns to me and looks at me properly for the first time. She smiles a small, gentle smile—a smile more visible in her eyes than at her mouth—and then she’s reaching for me, placing her hand on my arm, carefully pulling me forward, and she’s drawing me inside her surprisingly strong embrace. Surprised, I hug her back. The moment’s over quickly, and then she’s releasing me.
With a casual shrug, Cleo twists around, addressing the other clan members. “Good enough for me. I’d say we should call ourselves lucky to have ourselves such a beautiful guest.” Then to me she says, “Zara, you’re welcome here. If you need anything, you come and find me. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
Pasha—stoic, dark, serious, Pasha—lights up like a child on Christmas morning. I’ve heard him laugh more than once now, loud and infectious laughter that penetrates deep down to the very roots of a person, but I’ve been too overwhelmed to actually watch him do it. His smile is transformational. With his raven’s wing hair, his frosty, ice-green eyes, and his overly pale skin, Pasha’s always felt like the moon—cool, and beautiful, and brilliant. Not right now, though. In this moment, eyes half closed, bowed into crescents, deep dimples in both cheeks, his smile so genuine and real, so big, he is a goddamn winter sun, and I find myself trapped in his orbit, snared by his gravity, and any minute I am going to lose myself and be burned up by him entirely.
Wrapping one arm around Cleo, Pasha gives her a quick hug, briefer than the one she gave me. “Have I told you lately how much I adore you?” he murmurs.
The woman scowls, playfully shrugging him off. “Why don’t you just say thank you and we can all move on?” she grumbles under her breath.
The crowd disperses around us, everyone apparently satisfied by what has been said, at least for now, and eventually only Shireen and Cleo remain. With a look of concern on her face, Shireen bumps Pasha with her hip. “Know how to cause a scene don’t you, little brother. Patrin’s going to lose half his fucking hair over this.”
Pasha smirks. “He’ll be happy as a pig in shit and you know it. He’s finally gonna get his chance. Take a run at Shelta and me in one go? Tonight couldn’t have worked out better for him.”
A flicker of worry passes over Shireen’s face, but still she smiles. “What a nightmare. He’s going to be furious when he doesn’t win.”
Surprise hits me square in the chest. Shireen being Patrin’s wife, I’d have thought there would be a little more solidarity between them. Usually, someone’s partner would be rooting for them, even if the odds aren’t in their favor. The pale, startlingly blonde woman doesn’t appear to be willing to pretend, though.
Cleo rolls her eyes. “Maybe he’ll calm down once and for all if he gets his ass kicked just a little bit. Come on, you two. Archie’s not arriving until tomorrow morning. I’m sure he’ll be fine with you commandeering his wagon ’til then. I’m sure you want to get warm. It’s going to be bitterly cold tonight.”
Eight
ZARA
Six foot four inches. That’s how tall Pasha is, and yet he still somehow manages to cram himself inside the small, painted vardo that Cleo leads us to without any issue whatsoever. He removes his down vest, toes off his boots, fills the small iron kettle with water (from a running tap!) and makes two cups of tea, and then he makes himself comfortable on the tiny sofa, all without banging into anything, hurting himself or breaking anything.
I, on the other hand, have no such luck.
In the space of sixty seconds, I manage to slam my hip into the corner of a bench so hard I feel like I’m about to throw up, I knock over a tiny glass vase filled with dried wild flowers, and just to really finish things off I turn around too quickly and nearly fall ass first out of the door to the vardo and tumble down the small wooden ladder to the ground. That�
��s exactly what would have happened if Pasha hadn’t leapt up from the sofa and snatched hold of my hand in the nick of time, pulling me back inside the wagon.
Fucker doesn’t even spill his tea.
His eyes are dancing with amusement as he closes the door behind me and bolts it shut. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he rumbles. I have to fight the urge to punch him right in the gut.
“My apartment’s small, but this is just wild. I’m going to have smashed every stick of furniture in here by the time your friend arrives. It’s like a meat locker in here. I’m frozen down to the marrow of my bones,” I growl at him. “I’m never going to be warm again.”
Pasha just laughs. “Pretty, grumpy Firefly. Gets tetchy when tired and cold. Patience clearly isn’t your strong suit either.”
I growl under my breath, the threatening look I fire across the tight span of the wagon having the desired effect as he holds up his hands in surrender. “Woah, now. You get used to the size. I promise. And I’ll have the place warm in a second. Just don’t kill me before you thaw out, okay? We’ve had a hell of a day. I was hoping we might be able to chill out for a second.”
I conceal a smile, pretending to still be grumpy as he moves methodically through the wagon, collecting three large logs from a basket under the kitchen sink and throwing them inside the wood burner. The smell of smoke curls up my nose, reminding me of summer camps, and the cabin my grandfather used to keep in the wilds of Montana. It also reminds me of the man building the fire.
His features are thrown into contrast as the flames inside the wood burner catch and take hold, washing him in golden light and shadow. I can’t stop staring at him. When we first got into the car to drive north, I did my best to disguise my constant need to watch Pasha. Seemed like a bad idea to let him know how intrigued I was by him, by the way he drove, by the way his knee bounced, by the way his chest rose and fell as he fucking breathed, but now I’ve abandoned my pathetic attempts at subterfuge. I’m bad at it, always have been, and I know he’s caught me staring at him at least three times. I’m blatant as hell as I observe him building the fire, arms folded over my chest, leaning against the wall of the wagon, picking him apart, piece by piece. I don’t flinch when he glances askance, his eyes meeting mine as he slams the grate closed, sliding the flue open to vent the smoke out of the chimney.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were just a little bit infatuated with me, Zara Llewellyn,” he observes. “Can’t be true, though, right?”
“Why? Because a girl like me wouldn’t be stupid enough to like a boy like you?” I tease.
Pasha straightens up, grunting a little, and then perches on the edge of the counter, his body assuming a relaxed, at-ease lean of his own. He isn’t smiling now, though. “No. I just couldn’t be that lucky,” he says softly, correcting me. The tiny frown he’s wearing eases between his brows, disappearing altogether. “You don’t need to worry about them accepting you anymore, Zara. I think that went pretty well, all things considered.”
“Ha! You did hear your mother, didn’t you? She pretty much told me, in plain and simple terms, that I’d be fucked if I stayed here, no matter what you said.”
“Yes, I did hear her say that. But the old woman’s been overruled. If she touches you now, or anyone else fucks with you on her behalf, then she’s gonna find herself neck-deep in shit.”
“I’m sorry? Did I miss something? When the hell was Shelta overruled?”
“When Cleo told the entire clan at the top of her lungs that we were lucky to have you as a guest. That you were welcome here. That she would see to it personally that you have everything you need here.”
Those were indeed Cleo’s words. I remember them vividly. “So…Cleo’s word is gospel, then? Why does her welcome mean more than Shelta’s threats?”
Pasha moves. He stands in front of me, and suddenly the vardo seems even smaller than it did a few seconds ago. His chest is barely more than an inch away from mine. His hands find their way to my hips, and I draw in a deep breath, forcing oxygen into my lungs. Christ, this man is not safe. If he had any idea the power he has over me…would he use it to his advantage?
If he told me to, I would raze my own life to the ground for him. Hand in notice on my apartment. Say goodbye to my career. Walk away from everyone I’ve ever know or cared about. If it came down to it, I would choose him over any other aspect of my life, and that scares the living shit out of me. I don’t want to sacrifice my life in Spokane for him, I really don’t. I want to find Sarah. I want to resolve the stupid, bullshit harassment complaint at work and go back to helping people who need it. I want to keep meeting up with my friends on a Tuesday night to drink my juice and join them in setting the world to rights.
I just…I want him, too.
I want to find a balance. A way to continue with the routines that have made me feel comfortable and safe in Spokane, while also accomplishing the impossible and creating space for Pasha. I get the sneaking suspicion that I will only be able to have one, and not the other. Pasha isn’t the kind of man who only occupies a small part of someone’s life; he commands it. He consumes it. He is a drug, the most potent, addicting, heady drug on the face of the planet, and one hit is all it takes. Suddenly, nothing matters anymore. No one else matters, and I’m not sure how I feel about succumbing to that level of need.
I feel like I’m being hypnotized as he looks down at me, and I’m enveloped by the bright, luminous green of his eyes. “She’s my great aunt. My grandmother’s sister. She’s the camp’s Wise Woman. If she says something, no one will go against her. No one would dare. It’s serious bad luck to go against her.”
“Right. So she’s good to have on side, then.”
He releases a short, entertained huff of laughter. “You could say that. Plus, people like Cleo. That goes a long way. She’s a bad ass. Almost eighty-eight, and she’s still the best mechanic in the clan. The woman can fix anything.”
I give him a doubtful look. “Yeah, well. Some things really can’t be repaired.”
“I assume you’re talking about my mother?”
I nod. “A team of therapists and all the Valium in the world couldn’t fix her.”
“We don’t have to worry about Shelta any more. At least, not for tonight, anyway.” Pasha slides his hand underneath the hem of my sweater; his fingers make contact with the skin above my hip, and I shiver involuntarily. He’s not cold. Far from it. His touch scorches me, blisteringly hot, eliciting a reaction from me that seems to make him very happy indeed. He leans down, breathing deeply into my hair, nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck, and my eyes roll back into my head.
God, that feels…
…that…
…feels…
“Fuck. I love the way you melt when I touch you, Firefly,” Pasha whispers into my hair. “Feels like you have an electrical current running over your skin. I can’t get enough of it. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I’m like a fucking teenaged boy. My dick has been hard as fuck for hours.”
Oh…shit.
I close my eyes. My thoughts are spiraling. I should wrestle them into submission, so I can regain control over the situation and myself, but damn. Every time I try to calm my racing mind, my racing heart gallops away from me, and I’m being torn in two different directions at once.
“Have…” I swallow. “Have you ever slept with anyone in here before?”
Pasha’s lips meet the skin of my neck and reality slips a little further out of reach. “In here? I’m sure Archie has. But, no. I have not.”
My arms rise of their own accord, and my hands find their way up his broad, strong, muscled back. Beneath his t-shirt, his body feels fucking amazing. I wind my fingers into his hair, tugging gently on the strands until I feel him smile against my neck, just above my collar bone. “Would it bother you if I had?” he asks. “You feeling a little possessive right now, Zara?”
“Maybe. Just a little,” I admit. Fuck, I sound so out of breath, like
I’ve been running flat out for the past twenty minutes. Shameful. Actually, scratch that. More like embarrassing. A little attention from a hot guy, and I lose the most innate, essential, skill I have? One I was born with, that requires no actual thought or awareness to carry out? I am officially a lost fucking cause. “Sorry,” I murmur. “Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. I know you have slept with people before. I’m not jealous.”
“You’re not?” he hums. A wet heat teases at my skin, and I realize that he’s licking my neck, sucking the skin into his mouth, kissing and laving at me. My knees buckle, threatening to stop working. I reach back, searching for some support, something to steady myself against. Pasha winds an arm around my waist, jerking me toward him, crushing me to his chest, though.
“I’m jealous,” he grinds out. “Every time I think about you with other guys, I want to track them down, find out where they live, and pay them a visit with a pair of fucking bolt cutters. If I could go back in time, I’d find you and make you mine before you could give yourself to anyone else. I wish more than anything that I was the only guy you’d ever been with.” His hand, the one that’s still beneath my sweater, rises slowly, until my skin is covered in goose bumps, and the pad of this index finger and his thumb are brushing the underwire of my bra. His teeth graze my neck, and my startled gasp of surprise fills the vardo.
Pasha’s eyes are feverishly bright when he pulls back and looks at me. “I wish I’d never fucked anyone else, too. I fucking hate that I’m imperfect for you.”
“You’re far from imperfect,” I whisper. How the hell can he look at himself in the mirror and think of himself that way? It makes no sense. His mouth, lips still a little swollen from the attention he was just paying to me, lifts on the left-hand-side into an approximation of a smile. “Yeah. I’m hot. Women seem to like that I have abs for days. But I didn’t mean that. It just…it would have been better if I hadn’t fucked anyone before I fucked you.”
