Page 135 of Blood & Snow

Nothing.

The man I love bought perfect gifts for children he's never met because he pays attention to every detail about my life.

He remembers things I mention in passing, filing them away for moments exactly such as this.

"They're so perfect," I manage between sobs.

"They're just toys," Irina says, but her tone suggests she's beginning to understand the deeper implications.

Not toys.

Declarations.

Promises wrapped in silver paper and tied with expensive ribbon.

Each gift says I see you, I know you, I want to be part of your world.

It's uplifting yet crushing in the same breath.

"Who did you say sent these?" Irina asks quietly.

I can't answer.

Can't explain that the man who terrorizes Moscow's streets chose a ballerina music box because he knows my niece dreams of dancing professionally.

Can't describe how someone capable of such violence can also demonstrate such tenderness.

The contradiction is tearing me apart.

"I need some air," I whisper, heading toward the balcony.

"Nadya, wait?—"

But I'm already sliding open the glass door, stepping into December's bitter embrace.

The cold hits my face immediately,drying tears and shocking my system back toward equilibrium.

Moscow's lights twinkle through the darkness in patterns that might be beautiful if I didn't know what happens in the spaces between them.

Somewhere out there, Xander is planning his next move in the war against the Sokolovs, and men are dying because of orders he's given.

And in my chest, my heart breaks a little more with each breath.

I love him.

The admission no longer frightens me because it's simply true, as undeniable as gravity or the passage of time.

I love his pale gray eyes and the way they soften when he looks at me.

I love his hands, both gentle and deadly depending on the moment's requirements.

I love the way he calls mePtichka, as if I'm something precious that might fly away.

Which is exactly what I'm trying to do.

Behind me, I hear Irina's footsteps crossing the living room, the soft murmur of her voice as she speaks to the children.

They're probably wondering why their aunt is crying over presents, confused by adult emotions that make no sense in their world of simple pleasures.