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They clean her and feed her and sit her next to the fire, her shivering fingers closing around a burning mug of tea until she can no longer feel her own skin. She blinks against the brightness of the flames, blinks until she’s dizzy and light-headed. Her mind is empty -- empty of memories, thoughts, dreams, empty but for the last few hours when they found her frozen and almost dead by the side of the road, when they brought her to the hospital and saved her. It is the most confusing thing, not even remembering your own name.
One of the nurses settles on ‘Anya’, and she thinks that there are worse names to bear.
It is not until hours later, lying in bed, that Anya notices it. How she missed it before, she does know, but it is all she can see now. The moon turns everything silver in the room she shares with other girls, casting shadows on the walls and on her wrist when she holds it above her head. The handwriting is messing and hesitant, and Anya squints to read the Cyrillic letters. Anastasia! , it reads. She frowns some more, wondering. Despite her missing memories, Anya knows that much -- everyone is born with words on their skin. The first words your soulmate says to you. Is she called Anastasia? Has she met her soulmate yet? The handwriting looks like that of a child, but she could be wrong. Not everyone in Russia knows how to perfectly write, after all.
She asks the nurse the following day, but her answers are less than useful. Anastasia is, after all, a popular name among Russian girls of her age, everyone wanting to name their children after the royal family. It is less a clue and more of a new mystery to Anya. She isn’t even sure it is her name. It could be a mistake, after all. She decides not to think about it too much.
…
(“I’m Vlad. What’s your name, dear?”
“I don’t know,” she replies.
Her mark seems to burn her skin.
The way she grabs her wrist above the heavy fabric of her coat makes her look almost demure, and it only succeeds in bringing a smirk on the old man’s face.)
…
Dmitry doesn’t believe in soulmates.
Or, well. Maybe he does. But he doesn’t let it rule his life the way other people do. How could he, after all? Soulmate bonds didn’t save his mother from pneumonia, and it certainly didn’t save his father from the labor camp.
Vlad tells him he has a very cynical view of the world, but then again Vlad often forgets Dmitry has been living on the streets since he was eleven. Not much space for hope and optimism under a bridge. So, bite him, he cares a lot more about getting something in his stomach than he does about his soulmate.
Oh he has one all right. The neat, beautiful sentence wrapped around his bicep is hard to forget, even with how little he undresses these days.
He has a soulmate all right.
Or, at least, he had.
…
(“I’ve been thinking about Anastasia…”
“Oh not you too!” Dmitry groans.
She’s dead, he wants to scream. She’s dead with her entire family and she’s not coming back! Dead! Dead! Dead!
But a Russian street rat needs money and it’s not that bad a plan. It could even work.)
…
She doesn’t look like much.
Honestly Dmitry doesn’t know what Vlad sees in her. She’s skinny and moody and unwilling to learn, with dirty hair and hollowed cheeks. Not even when she stands in front of the massive family portrait can Dmitry see the resemblance. But Vlad assures him she’s the one.
Dmitry bites his tongue not to reply that Vlad would hire a dancing dog if he thought it would do the job. He’s only looking for an excuse to go back to Paris and find Lily again. Stupid soulmates. Stupid reunions. Stupid everything.
Now Dmitry is stuck with this little girl, having her parrot back the entire history of Russia to him until she gets it right. Which she doesn’t, and it makes it all the more infuriating. She can never get it right, fumbling with the names and the dates and the details, until Dmitry has to correct her over and over again. She keeps throwing her book at him when she gets frustrated, and it takes all of Dmitry’s patience not to simply dump her in the Neva and be done with it. Sure would fix a lot of his problems. All the while creating so many more.
Her temper doesn’t help, to be honest. It’s not even amusing, at this point. Dmitry entertains the idea that Anastasia, the real Anastasia, would never act in such a way, too demure and polite for such tantrums. But the thought never really goes that far because… Well, because if he’s honest with himself, Dmitry can’t exactly picture himself having that kind of a soulmate. He’d want someone who can give as good as she gets, who can meet his own temper head on and have no problem yelling at him when he’s being an idiot. He wouldn’t want a pretty, polite lady.
Anya sure isn’t one.
So he’s left glaring at her and snapping back when she gets something wrong and wondering what would happen if he threw himself into the Neva. Sure would put all his ideas back in the right order. A scary thought if there ever was one.
…
(“And I recall his yellow cat!”
Dmitry stomps on the spark in his heart before it ignites.
No time for false hopes.)
…
Catherine Canal has always been Dmitry’s favourite, for as long as he can remember. Only it’s not Catherine Canal anymore -- the Bolsheviks and their obsession with renaming everything. Different name, same view, as he tells Anya of his childhood as a street rat. The Church of the Savior on Blood glows silver and golden against the crimson sunset, its reflexion in the river making Dmitry’s heart sigh. It was hard enough, having to say goodbye to the only place he’s ever known. It’s harder still coming to peace with the fact he may have to stay.
He distracts himself with quizzing Anya about the lapdog of Anastasia’s childhood, only for her to get into one of her moods. Neither Dmitry nor Vlad know what to make of those; the moments where Anya’s eyes have that far-away look to them, where she will give them a detail or a line that will throw them off. Dmitry handwaves it as her reading more book on the side, getting her knowledge from it instead of Vlad. Nothing another girl couldn’t learn too, if she put her mind to it.
The same look in her eyes when he gives the music box to her. It was Vlad’s idea, rewarding her for her efforts like you would a child with a candy. Not that Dmitry would know what that feels like. He’s never had a candy in his life.
That look in her eyes when she manages, by some miracle, to open the box on the first try -- how he never noticed the mechanism at the bottom, Dmitry will never know. That look when she hums the song, her voice rising softly to sing the lyrics. That look; that damn puzzling look.
She gets almost giddy a few seconds later, her voice rushing in her hast to talk about trains, and leaving, and the extra shift for extra money. She’s so eager to go along with their plan, so eager to leave, and of course Dmitry has to be the asshole. Has to tell her there’s no way they can go. He’s counted their money yesterday, down to the last kopek. The conclusions were not as bright as he had expected.
“Close your eyes!”
He argues back, only to get insulted. One thing for sure. She may not be Anastasia, but she masters the snotty arrogance like any royal Vlad has ever talked about. She may not be Anastasia, but she could pass for her all right.
Her fingers brush against his before something sharp and cold drops in his opened palm, and then he’s opening his eyes, and then he’s forgetting all about what a brat Anya is.
A diamond!
A real one!
The anger flares in him -- she had it all along and never said a world? Does she know they could have escaped weeks ago with it? They could already be in Paris? Away from this cold winter and their abandoned theatre and the police as a threat over their head? Dmitry takes a deep breath, but still he snaps at her, and she snaps back.
She didn’t trust them, of course she didn’t. It makes sense as much as it hurts. But Dmitry looks at the diamond again, and. It would be so easy to make a run for it. To abandon her right it and jump on a train and never look back. That diamond is his key out of the country, out of this soviet nightmare, his key to freedom.
But he looks in his eyes and reads trust.
…
(She trusts him to save her, too.
It scares him to death.
He wants to kiss her.
That scares him even more.)
…
They don’t stop, don’t look back, until they reach Germany. It is for the best, Vlad says, but Vlad also shoved a ring around Anya’s finger and forced Dmitry into pretend they’re married so. Vlad doesn’t really get to have an opinion anymore.
It makes sense, technically speaking. It will be easier for them to travel as a couple and their old uncle, instead of three nobodys together. Less eyebrows raised at the sigh of a young, single lady alone with two men.
Still. Dmitry isn’t fond of the idea. And neither is Anya. Her smile is stiff when they stop in some cheap hotel for a night, Dmitry’s arm around her waist when he asks for two rooms. She doesn’t even try to act in love, just standing there and not saying a word, so Dmitry smiles for her and hugs her and puts his nose in her hair, and hates every second of it. He’s a conman, it’s his job to convince people he’s someone else. That is still drawing a line, though.
Dmitry drops his bag in the room before leaving again, with the excuse of finding something to eat and the need to get some fresh air away from her. He’s been alone most of his life and, even if he loves Vlad and tolerates Anya, he needs his own time to be in his head. In silence. Away from people.
He wanders the street of Berlin for two hours, until the sun is setting and he’s afraid he might get lost. When he comes back, with food and drinks, Anya is sitting cross-legged on their bed and reading a volume of poetry. By Pushkin. In French.
She’s bragging now.
“Nice walk?” she asks, looking up from her book. It’s such a simple question, but it takes Dmitry by surprise in how sincere it sounds. Like she actually wants to know. Like she actually cares. He’s so used to being invisible, part of the decor as much as a street lamp is, that Dmitry doesn’t know what to think, what to answer, at first.
“It was all right. Quick, food’s getting cold.”
They eat on the bed, sausages and potato soup and hard bread they swallow down with beer, until their stomachs are full and their fingers greasy. Dmitry smiles a little more easily, and goads Anya into reading for him. She complains and disagrees for a while before her pride gets the best of her and she decides to show off her reading skills.
Dmitry lies on the bed, his head pressed to her thigh, lulled to sleep by the cadence of her voice in French. He doesn’t understand the words, but he doesn’t need to.
…
(“She’ll break your heart.”
Dmitry scoffs. Loud. Ugly. “Don’t be ridiculous. She isn’t even my soulmate.”
Vlad’s eyes are sad and knowing.
“Doesn’t mean she can’t break your heart. Be careful, Dmitry.”)
…
In Belgium, she thrives.
They’ve all be struggling with the languages across Europe until now, but Anya is taking to Brussels like a fish to water. She babbles in French with anyone and everyone, her accent so perfect and refined they think her Parisian at first. How a small street cleaner is bilingual, Dmitry has no idea, but it’s useful. They don’t have to worry about getting weird, undefinable food in restaurants, for starters.
She’s smiling a lot more too, which. It’s nice, he has to admit. She’s less moody these days, more agreeable, and turns out she isn’t so bad to spend time with when she’s not yelling at him. They’re having quite a lot of fun teasing and annoying Vlad, and wandering the city, and discovering museums. It’s like a weight has lifted off Dmitry’s shoulders somewhere between Germany and the Netherlands, like he left his shadows behind in St Petersburg, and it’s doing him good. He can finally breathe, can finally walk without always looking behind his back. This kind of freedom he never thought to dream of is his, now.
There is still that one afternoon spent working on Anya’s wardrobe, too many hours of soft, pastel fabrics and leather shoes and hair bows. So many hair bows. Dmitry feels like dying when Vlad shoves more and more clothes in Anya’s arms for her to try on, the poor girl overwhelmed at the idea of having more than one outfit. He slumps into a chair, and pretends not to appreciate the view every time she gets out of the changing room and asks for their opinion.
Western Europe women sure like to show off their legs.
He swallows hard.
…
(“Oh my god,” she whispers.
Paris stretches in front of them, glowing in the morning light.
Her hand finds his fingers and squeezes.
Dmitry doesn’t push her away.)
…
A scream, sharp and terrified, wakes up him in a startle. The other half of the bed is empty, Vlad still out with Lily. The scream comes from Anya’s room and doesn’t stop, and Dmitry makes a run for it.
She’s standing and shivering in the middle of the room, sheets tangled in her feet, hair falling in her eyes. Tears have made their way down her cheeks, and she coughs a sob when Dmitry grabs her arms. He reassures her that the voices she hears are only that, voices, but still she sobs. Still she begs him to stay by her side. And still he does.
He sits next to her on the bed, panicking and unable to comfort her. Her body is still shaking with sobs and a shiver, her nose red, her eyes puffy. He’s never seen her so vulnerable before, not even on the train when she yelped and hid in his neck. Always so strong and stoic, despite her doubts. Beautiful in her confidence.
“Who do you think I am, Dmitry?”
He swallows hard against the knot in his throat. He knows what she wants to hear -- that he believes her to be the Grand Duchess herself, that she isn’t only pretending. But he can’t lie to her that easily, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, words dying like smoke in his lungs. He doesn’t believe her to be the girl he met and lost all those years again, doesn’t believe her to be the one whose letters are burnt into his skin. And so he won’t lie, won’t pretend. This may be the biggest scam in history, but it stops with lying to Anya. She deserves better than that.
“If I were the Dowager Empress, I would want you to be Anastasia.”
Here. Not a lie. Not exactly the truth either.
“You would?”
“I would want her to be a beautiful, strong, intelligent young woman,” he goes on, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can think of them, or of swallowing them down. Anya turns her head to look at him, surprise replacing fear in her eyes, one brow rising up. Dmitry swallows around the knot in his throat, unable to make sense of his own words. He has no idea where they came from, and the truth of them scares him. How easy it was, for him to say such things.
“Is that who you think I am?”
This, and so much more.
She stills, halfway turned toward him, her hand between their thighs on the mattress, his on her knee. She’s so close her grey eyes look almost navy blue in the darkness of the room, her heavy breathes fanning against his mouth. She’s so close, he almost forgets himself.
“I do.”
She stares back, unblinking.
“Thank you.”
He puts some distance between them. Or maybe she does. His hand curls around the cover of her bed, his thigh tingles at the cold of her absence. He closes his eyes, and curses himself for such a pathetic display of weakness and affection. It shouldn’t have gone so wrong. He shouldn't have grown attached. Tomorrow she will convince the Dowager Empress and he will get his reward, and they will both close the page on this chapter of their lives.
She isn’t even his soulmate, he reminds himself with a scoff. Why should it matter anyway.
As always, Anya has her own way of diffusing the tension, as infuriating as ever. Her “I began to wonder if you ever were going to pay me a compliment” only manages to get a tired sigh out of Dmitry, and he looks away with a shake of the head. That will teach him to be nice to her for once in his life.
Her fingers brush against his knee, delicate, hesitant, when she then asks, “Do you really think I might be her?”
Another sigh. Another lie he refuses to tell.
But when he looks into her eyes again -- big, hopeful, pretty -- there is something else he sees in her. Something new, different. And wouldn’t it be so much easier, if she were who they taught her to be? If she were really the Grand Duchesse, despite the memory lose, the ratty looks, the hollowed cheeks? If she were Anastasia, instead of Anya?
No, of course not. Or, well. It would be easier to convince the Dowager Empress, that’s for certain. But for Dmitry, it would be a new brand of complicated. Of impossible. Of maddening. It is simpler to believe her dead. Heartbreaking, maybe, but simple. Which is why he never let himself believe the rumours, because -- well because if Anastasia were alive, he would need to find her. He would spend an eternity finding her. And he can’t exactly afford it, mentally speaking. Emotionally speaking. He’s all drained of those, has been for a decade now.
And still. Still!
“I want to believe you’re the little girl I saw once many years ago.”
Too late to take those back, too. Too late, when Anya’s face lights up with curiosity, when his own memories come flooding back his mind. How long has it been, since he last let himself remember that day properly instead of only letting it invade his dreams? It’s always there, at the back of his mind, present in a muted way, not exactly on his brain but not exactly silenced either. Just -- there. A part of him.
“I don’t understand,” Anya states.
Dmitry decides to entertain her, just this once. “It was June, I was ten,” he starts.
He remembers that day too vividly -- the cheers of the crowd, everyone pushing each other to get closer, to have a look. Dmitry’s father was at the back, watching, judging, when Dmitry had let go of his hand to sneak between people. His father’s protests fell on deaf ears as he made his way to the front, too small and too fast to be stopped.
“It was one of those parades, before the Revolution started. The carriages full of royals and here she was with her sister in the last one. Barely more than eight, but so regal, so serene. A true Duchesse at heart.”
He smiles to himself as he remembers her, dress heavy with diamonds and blue sash across her chest, a light tiana in her strawberry blonde hair. Dmitry wasn’t that into girls yet, at that time, but even then she was the prettiest he’d ever seen. Still is, in his mind and in his heart.
“Everyone was cheering, but I could only stare at her. She was… something else, really.” She was everything he could never have or be, and yet he had made a run for it in his childish recklessness. “I started to run after her, to call her name. There was no way she could hear me, everyone was so loud but… I had to try. So I dodged between the guards to get closer, and I reached out for her and… She smiled. She smiles at me, only me, in this crowd of thousands.”
His hand is stretched in front of him, as if he could touch her still. Dmitry blinks, fingers curling around air, around nothing but his own memories. “Before I could do anything else, she was gone. I turned my head but the sun was blinding and she was -- gone. Just gone.”
He rubs a hand against his face. Even two decades later, the memory is painful. Heartbreaking. Anya is silent by his side, still. When he looks back at her, she has that far-away look in her eyes, the one that sparkles something dormant and long forgotten in Dmitry’s chest.
“That’s not how it went,” she murmurs. “Not exactly.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
It is less of a question and more of a warning, one she elects to ignore as she stands up and takes a few steps away from the bed. Her hands in her hair, shoulders slouching, she paces in front of him. Wordlessly, at first. Then, “The boy, he called my name and -- he was so skinny, so dirty but -- there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before, like. It was not just respect or reverence but -- curiosity. Awe. And he -- he made me smile. I was not supposed to smile, Mother’s orders was clear, but I couldn’t help myself. He was so different. So not what I was used to. And then… And then he bowed to me.”
She looks back at Dmitry, her eyes widening, filling with tears. He opens his mouth, but no word comes at first, too gobsmacked to answer. “I didn’t tell you that,” he manages to say through the white noise in his ears. This can’t be true.
This can’t be happening.
“You bowed to me!” she confirms once more. “And I laughed, and I said… I was so surprised, and delighted, and I said… ‘Are you bowing to me?’ Nobody had quite done it like that before. Like it was a game.”
Dmitry is on his feet, body reacting before his brain does. Next thing he knows, he is grabbing Anya’s elbows, but it is not enough. It can’t be enough. So he grabs her face instead, fingers curling around her jaw and into her hair, tilting her her head up until he’s staring into her eyes. Hers are blurry with tears -- or maybe it’s his. It is hard to tell.
“Nastya,” he whispers to her. Awe. Reverence. Love.
Her hands grab his wrists, then his elbows, before their curl around his biceps. Dmitry’s entire body shudders when her fingers brush against his tattoo. His tattoo. Her handwriting on his arm, burnt into his skin and his heart. He wonders where hers is, if she will show it willingly or let him discover it. Discover her body in the process, starting with --
His lips are a breath away from her, before he catches himself.
Before he steps back and kneels in front of her. Her, the Grand Duchesse Anastasia. Her, who will reunite with her family tomorrow. Her, he cannot have, does not deserve. Her, the one he only ever bowed to, and is bowing to again, arms crossed at the wrists and head low.
“Your Highness,” he whispers.
And if she hears something else, it is but the sound of his heart shattering once more.
…
Dmitry is a coward.
He gets out of the hotel in the early hours of the morning, before either Vlad or Anya (Nastya!) are awake. Slipping away in the cold sunset, with only a few francs in his pockets and a lot in his mind. He walks and walks until his feet start carrying him wherever they feel like going. He passes the Louvres, Nôtre-Dame, before he stops at the Jardin du Luxembourg.
Nobody but early risers like him wander around. A woman walking her dog. A lone painter setting up his easel. A violinist playing soft music, his case opened in front of him. Dmitry sits on a bench, his long legs stretched in front of him as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. The violin goes well with the fountains in the background, lulling him into a false sense of peace and serenity.
Dmitry doesn’t know how long he sits there, mind wandering, thoughts jumping from one subject to another. When his stomach protests the lack of food, he feels even more confused than a few hours before. Confused and hungry, buying a meal in a café for lunch, then simply confused again.
His feet bring him to the Champ de Mars next, to the Eiffel Tower he and Nastya climbed only two days ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. She had been so excited, giddy with happiness, smiling so much it should have hurt. She was beautiful then, full of hope and dreams. Now he’s staring down the Seine, his own dreams floating away.
When the sun goes down, Dmitry walks his way back to Avenue George V where their hotel is, taking the long way around instead of walking along the riverbank. He can’t stand the sight of Pont Alexandre III, not today. His legs are sore from all the wandering around, his mind heavier still than it was in the morning, and he lets himself be dressed by a groom without too much protest.
Vlad is looking at him like he grew a second head during the night, then comments on Anya’s nerves. Dmitry simply shrugs, then checks his reflexion in the mirror. Yes, it will do, he guesses.
It is only once they make it to the Opera Garnier that Dmitry grabs Vlad’s arm, pulls him closer. “It’s her. She’s really Anastasia,” he whispers.
Vlad pats his arm. “Yes. Yes, of course she is. That was the point all along, Dima.”
“No, Vlad. Listen!” He grows frustrated at Vlad’s obliviousness. “It’s her , Vlad.”
“I heard you, my boy,” Vlad dismisses him. “Now, tie your shoelaces, would you.”
Dmitry swallows back his scream of frustration.
…
(She’s a vision in blue.
The royal colours a painful reminder.
She’s beyond his reach.)
…
Dmitry is a coward.
For the second time that day, he flees. Down Rue de la Paix until he reaches the Louvres, its grey walls shining golden in the street lights. The palace does little more than remind him of the Yusupov Palace, of teaching Anya how to dance and Russian history. It was home, in some cruel and twisted way, more than the streets of Petersburg ever were. In that abandoned theatre, with nothing but scraps and two fellows street rats, Dmitry had found his place.
Dmitry leaves the palace behind, much to his mistake, because ten minutes later he finds himself on her damn stupid bridge. What an idiot he makes. Finding bits and pieces of her everywhere, when all he wants is to put her behind. He knows it to be impossible, of course. She’s his soulmate. And he loves her. He was never meant to put her behind.
Maybe, if anything else, he could put some distance between them. Going back is out of the question, but he could go to London, or to New York. Learn English. Make a life for himself here. He knows a lot of Russians went to live in the USA, so it’s not like he would be alone. Home away from home, whatever that means.
He feels eyes on him before he even notices the person -- years on the street taught him to always be on the lookout -- and then here she is. Blue dress shining like a star. Cheeks red, hair falling from its chignon. She’s a sight for sore eyes, his soulmate. His Duchesse.
“If you ever see me from a carriage again, don’t wave, don’t smile…” The bitterness is like poison on his tongue. He hates himself for the pain he reads in her eyes, the pain he is inflicting her. One more reason why she’s better off without him, quite obviously. He would only bring heartbreak and suffering into her life. “I don’t want to be in love with someone I can’t have.”
The confession escapes him, yet he can’t bring himself to regret it. Not when her words are on his arm and his heart in her hands, not when he knows for certain there will never be anyone else for him. He can’t be in love with her. He can’t live without his love for her.
She doesn’t move, rooted on the spot, and maybe that is all the answer Dmitry needs. No rejection, no hard words; nothing but her silence and her sad eyes. So he offers her his last bow, vows to never do it again, and turns around. London sounds like a good idea, as of right now. Far from her and the memories they created for themselves in the streets of Paris.
“I always dreamt my first kiss would be in Paris with my soulmate,” she calls after him.
Dmitry closes his eyes, sucks some air between his teeth. “I’m not…” he starts, and turns around. One lie, just one lie. But he can’t. “I’m not right for you, Nastya.”
Something sparkles in her eyes before she strides toward him with the kind of determination that has Dmitry take a step back. “The Grand Duchesse Anastasia Romanova would like to differ, Dima!” she all but yells at him, before she yanks him down by his bowtie.
His strangled cry is muffled against her mouth, and then she is kissing him. Strong. Unforgiving. She kisses like she fights, and Dmitry melts against her until his arms wrap around her body and he’s holding her up against him, until her hands are in his hair and her body pressed so tightly against his he can feel the heavy beating of her heart.
He only lets go of her when his lungs scream for air, and even then he keeps her close, keeps his hands on her as if willing her to stay with him. She raises a shaky hand to brush her hair away from her face, and offers him a hesitant smile.
“I wasn’t sure…”
His brain needs oxygen too, because he has no idea what she means. “What?”
“I wasn’t sure if it was you,” she goes on, her hands febrile as she gets rid of her right glove and shows her wrist to him. There, in his terrible handwriting, is her own name. The way he had called her during the parade, just the sound of her name. God, but he hadn’t even thought of that. How confusing it must have been to her, how she didn’t have much of a clue what was going on.
“I am an idiot,” he states, more to himself than to her.
She laughs, soft, joyful. “Yes, that much has always been clear.” Her tongue is stuck between her teeth as she teases him, and Dmitry wonders what exactly he did to deserve such a perfect woman in his life. “I understand what you tried to do. But it was stupid of you. From now on, I forbid you from ever making decisions for me.”
He blinks. Once, twice. “And what do you want to do next, then?”
“I…” She bites her lip and looks away, but even then she moves closer into the circle of his arms. “I don’t know yet, Dima. But I do know one thing, and it is that you are not going anywhere. Not without me, at least.”
He grins despite himself at her commanding tone. Gosh, but he loves her so. “As Her Majesty wishes,” he teases, and chuckles when she rolls her eyes.
But she also rises on her tiptoes and kisses him, kisses the breath out of his lungs and kisses the thoughts out of his mind. Yes, he decides. Yes, he will do anything she wishes or says. How could he not?
…
(Her hands grab his arms, nails leaving half-moon marks where his tattoo is, as she pants into his ear.
That.
That, more than anything else, is his undoing.)