“Honestly, this situation isn’t ideal. If you and Aleksei walked hand in hand into my office, wanting to get married, I’d throw you a wedding like Russia has never seen. But if it was known that my most trusted enforcer had—what’s the word?—trifled with you, that would not be good.”
I swallowed nervously, having no doubt he’d consider what Sevastyan and I had done trifling. “You’d be angry?”
“Only that you would be put at risk. If this continued, others would find out. I would lose respect for not keeping my men in order, and Aleksei would lose respect for disloyalty to me. Unfortunately, our business—and our safety—depends on respect. With Travkin aggressing, we are already vulnerable. He would use this to undermine my authority with this organization.”
“I don’t think Sevastyan and I are in danger of any more, um, trifling.” Though I might feel some inexplicable connection to him, whatever interest he’d felt for me had faded. Didn’t know why. The only thing that had changed was that he’d gotten to know me better, so ouch.
“I would not even have approached you with this if I hadn’t seen your own interest in him.” Paxán looked troubled as he said, “Still, just as I want what’s best for him, I must secure that for you as well. And I’m not convinced he is what you need.”
“Why not?”
“Aleksei lives a life of extremes.” He exhaled wearily, gazing at Sevastyan with a look at once proud and a little mystified. “Extreme loyalty, violence, vigilance. I’ve known him for nearly twenty years and have seen him with scores of beautiful women”—jealousy rearing its ugly head!—“but I have never seen him respond to anyone the way he does to you. His interest is dark, and that’s not necessarily a good thing.”
Paxán hadn’t exactly answered the question. “Are you warning me away from him?”
“I’m in an uncomfortable position. Do I hinder his happiness to secure yours? Or do I dare hope the two of you could make each other happy? Matches like this weren’t uncommon in my day. It would make sense, no? A trusted right-hand man and a treasured daughter?”
Matches? Securing happiness? This all sounded so ominous—and permanent. My commitment-phobe self was on full alert. “This is really heavy. I hardly know him.”
“Did Aleksei tell you how we met?”
“He said I should ask you.”
Paxán raised his brows. “That’s surprising. He’s a very private man.”
“He did say you took him in as a boy. Will you tell me how you found him?”
Paxán nodded. “I was driving the slums in St. Petersburg, looking for a foothold in the city. And I saw this man in a back alley beating a boy of no more than thirteen, beating him bloody. This wasn’t something unique. It was after the fall of communism. There were thousands of street children, and many were harshly abused.”
Sevastyan had been abused? The idea left a hollow ache in my chest. I gazed at him, now a grown man, so tall and stalwart.
“But this boy,” Paxán continued, “he kept struggling to his feet, facing the man with his shoulders squared. Why didn’t the boy stay in the gutter? Why keep rising? I’d never seen anyone take so many hits. Eventually, the man wore himself out! When the boy landed his sole blow, the big man went down, and then the boy disappeared. I had to know why he’d kept rising. So I followed his trail of blood to ask. Do you know what Aleksei’s answer was?”
Spellbound, I shook my head.
“In a deadened tone, he told me, ‘Styd bolnee udarov.’ Shame is more painful than blows.”
I swallowed. He’d been like that—at thirteen?
“Extreme, no? It’s expected for each vor to mentor a protégé, to bring someone who shows promise into the fold. I’d never been interested in doing so until I met Aleksei.”
“Where had he come from? Was he an orphan?” As I’d briefly been.
Paxán parted his lips, then seemed to think better of what he was about to tell me. “Perhaps he would confide in you if you two spent time together and got to know each other better.”
And therein lay the problem. Anytime we were alone, we were in danger of fooling around. Which might explain why Sevastyan had been avoiding me.
“Paxán, I need you to level with me,” I said, my face heating anew. “What would happen, if there was more . . . trifling?”
The dapper gentleman clockmaker pulled at his collar, utterly uncomfortable with this, reminding me that he was new at having a daughter. “Do you mind if I switch from English?” he asked, and I waved him on.
In Russian, using what had to be a record number of euphemisms, Paxán basically told me that if Sevastyan and I consummated a relationship, the man would be obligated to become plighted to me—a way of saying bound, fairly much forever—even without the wedding.
It all became clear. No wonder Sevastyan had distanced himself from me—he dreaded what might happen. Attraction to me was one thing, being plighted quite another.
Not that I wanted such an arrangement with him, but it still stung that he’d do anything to avoid getting saddled with me.
The first couple of days after the closet incident, I’d made excuses for his distance. He was too busy, had too much on his mind. Stupid, Natalie.
Not the guy to hold my hands and warm them when they’re cold.