by Anya Bast
“Well, that job isn’t done yet. We still don’t know if she’s staying.” She pushed her fork around her plate, not very hungry. “And if she does stay, there’s no guarantee she’ll help Rylisk with her magick. She might just take the money, sit back, and do nothing.”
“One step at a time.” Byron looked at Alek meaningfully while Alek’s head was down, munching his pasta.
She glanced at Alek too. She found it strange that Alek had agreed to go talk to Aralynda when he was such a reluctant magick user himself. Of course, maybe that’s why Byron had sent him. Maybe it had been more for Alek’s benefit than Aralynda’s.
“Lilya was wonderful.” Byron’s voice held warm regard and she looked over to find his expression held it as well. Pleasure suffused her, making her cheeks warm.
“I’m sure she was magnificent, as always,” said Alek in the same tone, looking up from his plate.
She smiled and caught a glimpse of a woman watching them from another table. The look on the woman’s face reminded her of what she must have looked like watching the family at the teahouse while she’d been waiting for Evangeline to arrive. Envy. Longing. Hope. That woman saw in Lilya what she’d seen in that family—something she wanted.
Lilya looked between Byron and Alek and her own heart filled with the longing that it might be true, but she knew it was just an illusion.
Ivan waded through the drifts of snow at the back of Byron’s home, the moon shining high in the sky above his head. He knew that as long as there were no strong winds or extra snow his boots would leave tracks that someone might find in the morning. That was fine. Preferable, really. Let them wonder and worry what stranger had come calling in the night. Let them wonder what the stranger had done and if he would be back. He would be back. This wouldn’t be Ivan’s last visit.
The back door was a heavy, expensive wooden frame filled with equally heavy, expensive colored glass. He supposed he could just break it, but he couldn’t be sure that all the good little boys and girls would be sleeping at this hour and he wanted to remain unnoticed for the time being. Instead he extracted a set of lock-picking tools. They weren’t the best set of tools in the world, not the finest that he owned by far, but they had sentimental value. He’d stolen them off his fuck of a father after he’d slit the man’s throat. Ivan had been thirteen. These tools had given him his start.
He jiggled the lock and had it opened in less than five seconds. Apparently Byron wasn’t all that concerned about his possessions . . . or his safety.
The open door let into the kitchen. Ivan nodded in approval. It was a nice place. A little palatial for his tastes, but this was the Andropov family’s residence, after all. Nothing but the best for that family. It was amazing the peasants hadn’t torched the house during the revolution, but he was aware that Byron’s family had done a lot for the community here in Ulstrat. Apparently that had earned them a free ride during the upheaval. Byron was a lucky son of a bitch. Of course, a man who lived on luck had better hope he had a lot of it. By Ivan’s measure, Byron was almost out.
The house was quiet and cold, though fires were kept burning low in the hearths of all the rooms to keep the home heated. They gave off a warm, merry light. Most likely everyone was in bed. He knew the bedrooms were upstairs, so he made his way out of the kitchen, through the foyer, and up the winding staircase.
The first bedroom he entered was Alek Chaikoveii’s.
The man slept fitfully, blankets and sheets twisted around his legs despite the chill in the room. His pillows were a mess. Ivan moved closer to the bed and looked down at him. He was a handsome bastard. This man’s father had never taken a knife to his face while his drunken mother looked on, laughing. No, this man had been born wealthy to parents that had cherished him, given him everything.
Well, he couldn’t have Lilya.
Ivan had done his research on this man who was currently fucking the woman he owned. He didn’t feel the same bonegnawing hatred when he gazed down at him as he did when he looked at Byron, but Alek was going to have to die too.
But not quite yet.
He checked a few other rooms and eventually hit pay dirt—Byron.
His sleep wasn’t troubled like his friend’s. This bastard slept well in his huge four-poster bed, where Lilya had undoubtedly been spending a lot of time. It was lucky she wasn’t there now; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control his temper and he wasn’t ready to draw blood yet.
The fire sputtered in the hearth, casting shadows over his face. Ivan fisted his hands at his sides, glancing at the iron fireplace tools he could so easily use to bludgeon him to death in his sleep. He wouldn’t even wake up. One solid hit to the head and Byron would never wake up.
Of course, what fun would that be? He liked to see the fear in his victim’s eyes before they died.
Even so, he wanted to do it. He wanted to see Andropov’s blood staining that white pillow. Imagining Lilya as she woke to find her lovers dead in their beds—both of them—would be very satisfying. But would she run back to Milzyr and take up her old life the way he wanted her to? Ivan wasn’t certain. He needed to see her with these men in order to know how to proceed. How deep had her emotions been invested in them? He had to know that before he dealt with her. It was possible that he would have to break her again in order to put her back in her place.
His body eased. Byron was safe. At least for tonight. He regretted he couldn’t take Andropov’s life tonight, but the anticipation of that event in the future was sweet.
Leaving Andropov’s room, he continued to explore the house.
At last he found Lilya.
He hadn’t seen her up close in many years. She was older, though Lilya had never had that sweet, fresh bloom of youth that so many other young girls possessed. Her life had put wisdom in her eyes early on and Ivan had always thought her more beautiful because of it. She had fit him in so many ways. She had been able to match the sorrow he held as a result of his abusive upbringing. She was the only woman he’d ever loved.
Too bad she was a faithless slut.
Rage overcame him as he remembered what he’d seen in the hallway so many years ago, Lilya clinging to that man the way he’d remembered his mother drunkenly clinging to men that weren’t her husband. That familiar anger rose up in him. He’d come too close to killing Lilya that day. She owed her life to him.
She should be grateful he hadn’t simply slit her throat.
Now she lay serenely under the soft sheets and blankets, her thick, dark hair spread over her pillow. Yes, she was still beautiful, more so now that age had settled on her and good nutrition had filled her out. He reached down and fingered a lock of her hair. She made a soft sound in her sleep and turned over, pulling the silky tendril through his loosely grasping fingers.
He pulled a knife and let it glint in the reflected firelight for a moment. The urge to kill her passed quickly. He didn’t want her dead, not if he had a choice. Hurt, maybe, but not dead. He just wanted her back where she’d been, where he could watch her.
She seemed far too happy here and that was not acceptable. This woman did not deserve happiness, not after the way she’d broken his heart. He’d thought he’d marry her. Gods, he’d wanted to have children with her. Then she’d defiled herself, made herself untouchable.
He stood for a moment over her sleeping body, hating the slight smile she wore on her pretty mouth. He wasn’t even sure he could bring himself to scar her, though that was in his plans. If he scarred that beautiful face, every man would turn her away. Byron and Alek would turn her away. She’d be forced to stay at the Temple of Dreams taking whatever men threw her scraps.
Hovering over her for a moment longer, he made his decision. His knife swooped down and cut a tendril of hair, too small an amount for her to ever notice. Scarring, yes. Perhaps that would soon make his to-do list.
Turning, he brought her hair up to his nose and inhaled the scent of her. He’d be back.
Something woke Lilya from a sound
sleep. Gasping, she sat up to an empty room and a flickering fire. Rubbing at one tired eye with the flat of her hand—she’d been painting until the wee hours—she flipped the blankets back, got out of bed, and quickly went for her robe and slippers.
There was no logical reason for it, but something felt wrong . . . off in the house. She walked to the window that looked over the garden. All she saw in the moonlit night was snow. Snow drifting. Snow falling. Snow covering very cold things.
Shivering, she turned and went to sit near the fire. The scent of the cologne Ivan used to wear hung very faintly in the chilly air. Her nose wrinkled and she frowned. It had to be her imagination. Maybe she’d had a nightmare she didn’t remember. That would wake her up quickly and frighten her as well. Hugging herself, she stared into the fire. The years could pass, the physical wounds could heal, but the vestiges of that event would never leave her.
“Lilya?”
She jumped, startled, then turned at the sound of Alek’s voice. He stood in the doorway. “You scared me.”
He walked toward her. “Someone’s been in the house. Are you all right? Did you see anyone?”
She leapt to her feet. “What?”
“Byron went down to the kitchen and found the door in the kitchen open and tracks leading to and away from the house.”
Her eyes opened wide and she put a hand to her mouth for a moment. “No. I didn’t see anyone. I woke up feeling disturbed and looked out the window. I saw nothing but snow. Then I came over here and sat down by the fire.”
He nodded. “Come here.”
She walked to him and he pulled her against his side, kissing her temple. “Byron’s checking the house. You stay with me.”
“Byron’s checking the house alone?” She looked up at him, shaking her head. “No.” Glancing around, she saw the iron fire poker near the hearth. She went to it and picked it up. “Let’s go make sure he’s all right.”
He looked surprised for a moment, then grinned. “All right, let’s go.”
They found Byron in the kitchen, leaning against the table and frowning. It was extra cold in the room from the door being left open. “The house appears to be clear. It was just one man and he appears to have left.” He looked up at them. “One set of tracks lead up to the door, but another set lead away. Same pair of shoes.”
“Anything missing?” Lilya dropped the poker to her side.
Byron shook his head. “Nothing I can see at first glance. All the really valuable things are locked away in hidden safes.”
“Why did he leave the door open?”
Alek shrugged. “Carelessness. Fear. Maybe the intruder heard Byron get up and he fled.”
“I don’t think so. The tracks leading away are calm and measured, not the tracks of someone running.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Maybe he wanted us to know he’d been here.”
Silence descended.
“Bold for a thief,” said Alek.
Byron looked at him and nodded.
“And disturbing. Well, that’s it for sleep tonight.” Lilya clutched the poker and wondered where in the house she could find a better weapon. Old street habits died hard and, at the moment, they were all reviving fast.
“Maybe not. You sleep with me. Alek can as well. My bed is big enough.”
She let a breath. “I’d feel better if we were all together.”
“Me too,” Byron answered.
They walked up to Byron’s room and crawled under his thick blankets. Lilya snuggled in with both men on either side of her, snug, warm, and feeling safe again. Yet the uneasiness of the way she’d woken still clung to her. The scent of Ivan’s cologne made her shudder with revulsion, even though she must have imagined it. It had to be that she’d sensed something amiss in the house—heard a sound in her sleep—and it had spurred a nightmare about Ivan.
Either way, silly or not, in the morning she would tell Alek and Byron about the scent.
Even though she was comfortable and safe between the men she admired most in the world, sleep didn’t come again until dawn lighted the horizon.
By the light of day, Byron inventoried the house and found nothing taken. It was an ominous thing. What had the intruder wanted if not valuables? The memory of Lilya’s unease in the marketplace was still fresh in his mind too. Was there someone in Ulstrat who meant him harm because of his noble blood or family name? Maybe a last hold out from the revolution? It was definitely possible. Crimes were still committed against the nobles who’d survived the revolution. Hatred died hard.
The morning after the break-in, Lilya had told him and Alek about the faint, lingering scent of Ivan’s cologne in her bedroom. They were all of the opinion that Lilya’s nerves had caused her to imagine his scent. Ivan had had nothing to do with Lilya for six years and they were far from Milzyr now.
Still, someone had broken into the house and Byron wasn’t taking any chances—not with Lilya—so the next day, when the town had been a little more recovered from the storm, he’d gone in and hired men to go over the house more thoroughly. The snow was cleared away from the shops and streets, and the town of Ulstrat was partially running again. Those with sleighs had brought them out for use in the heavy ground cover. Since he’d returned he’d been watching the men he’d hired scour the house and improve the locks.
Alek and Lilya had secreted themselves in her painting room to get away from the commotion. After making sure the men had everything they needed, he headed up there. In the hallway outside he heard muffled talking and laughing. A jolt of jealousy went through him even though he was happy that Lilya and Alek were getting along so well.
He knocked, then entered when Lilya called.
“You have to sit still, Alek!” She stood in front of her easel with a wet paintbrush in her hand. “All that fidgeting has forced me to give you an extraordinarily large nose.”
“A man is not meant to sit still for this long a period of time.”
“Not even a scholar?”
“No.”
Byron peered over Lilya’s shoulder at the portrait. “Huh.”
“Huh?” Alek asked from his chair near the window. “What does huh mean?”
Lilya took a step back and tilted her head to the side, studying her work. “See what I mean about the nose?”
“Hmm, yes.” He pointed at the image of Alek’s head. “And his head . . .”
“What’s wrong with my head?”
Byron ignored him. “His head is a bit bulbous too, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and it probably shouldn’t be that shade of green.”
Alek jumped out of his chair and came to look while he and Lilya laughed. He tilted his head to the side the way Lilya had. “My nose isn’t too big, my head’s not bulbous or green, but there’s definitely something off about it.”
Lilya nodded and sighed. “Apparently portraits are not my forte.”
Byron glanced at the incredible street scene she was still working on. It was propped against a nearby wall. “Maybe not, but you’re definitely good at other kinds of painting.”
“It’s not that bad,” said Alek. “Better than I could ever do. Miles better than anyone could do without any formal instruction. I think you just need practice.”
“Maybe when you go back to Milzyr you can find a teacher,” Byron offered. “I’ll even help you find one. There has to be someone close to the Temple of Dreams you can work with.”
The small smile she wore faded. “Yes, maybe.” She turned away, cleaning off her brush. “I’m done with portraits for the time being though.”
Byron stared at her back. She’d gone cold all of a sudden and he had no idea why. “If you don’t want me to help find a teacher, that’s all right, Lilya.”
She gave a short laugh and turned around. “Of course I want your help. Are the men gone yet?”
“They’re almost finished. They better be since it’s almost time for us to leave.”
She nodded. “The crossball game.” It had been re
scheduled for that afternoon. She glanced down at her paint-smeared hands. “How much time do I have? I’m a mess.”
“You look good to me,” answered Alek. “And it’s not exactly a formal occasion, by the way.”
She waved her hand dismissively at him. “You’re a man and have no idea what you’re talking about when it comes to appearance. Which begs the question, will I be the only woman there?”
“No,” Byron answered. “Many of the wives and daughters come to watch, though the majority of the fans are men.”
She pushed past them both. “I need to get ready, then.”
Nineteen
Lilya hurried down the corridor to her room. The back of her throat stung from the threat of tears. Needing to hurry to get ready had just been an excuse to leave the room. She crashed through her door, closed it, and only barely kept herself from locking it.
Walking over to the area where the bathtub sat, she stared at her reflection in the mirror above the water basin. She’d been a fool to think that she’d ever have a chance at ending up with Byron for the long term. He’d told her that every man she met fell in love with her, but instead he’d brought her here and she’d fallen in love with him.
And now she had significant feelings for Alek too. When she left this place her heart would break twice.
Maybe this was payback for all the hearts she’d broken over the years. It probably served her right.
She shook her head and tried to put it all out of her mind. That Byron had every intention of packing her back off to the city should come as no great shock. What had she been expecting? Declarations of undying love? A ring? An entreaty to leave the Temple of Dreams and stay here with him forever? Thinking on her ring drawer back in the city, she snorted. Funny how she would never get any of that from the one man she wanted it from.
And as far as the Temple of Dreams went, she was done with it. There was no way she could sleep with any man other than Byron or Alek now. Too much had changed as result of her trip here. That was all right. She had money.
