Page 22 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

An Honorable Man

With his mother and sisters sent away and the people who tended his lands settled, Viktor could finally bring Syra home.

And though she should be happy, she just felt …

numb. She wished she could kiss Viktor at night, but she hurt too much to even try.

And in the end, he would need to return to Zoldrovya as its lord.

Wasn’t that for the best? She should not want a liar.

Viktor led them in reverse. Three days through the forest to Beluvod along the great, glass-like lake that was large enough to be a sea. They stopped at Viktor’s townhome, where the old man Yefrem scowled and sighed over their story.

“The boy has many wounds to heal,” Yefrem said when he caught her studying Viktor one evening.

Syra said nothing.

“Including wounds he inflicted on you, it seems,” said the old man.

Part of her hated Viktor for dragging her through Ruthenia, his lies nearly killing her. But part of her still wanted him, those soft lips and his kind gestures. She slid her fingers over the Bone Doll. “He lied to me.”

“Trust is hard to mend,” Yefrem acknowledged. “But I think he will work his entire life to do it. The boy is fond of you.”

Like a child was fond of their first reindeer? She folded her arms in front of her chest.

“When Viktor was a lad of maybe sixteen or seventeen, he caught the eye of a girl of about the same age,” Yefrem said.

“Her name was Yuliya, and he would have done anything for her.

Lord Igor noticed the pair, though, and decided to use Yuliya for his own purposes.

Lord Igor always wanted Viktor to be more like him, so he paid Yuliya and her family to insist that Viktor prove himself a suitable match – or Yuliya would be forbidden from seeing him.

“They demanded that Viktor prove himself in a tournament.

He could pick – hand-to-hand, wrestling, sword-fighting, archery.

Viktor chose hand-to-hand. And while Lord Igor was certain that Viktor would be spurred on by teenage lust and finally find a propensity for violence, Viktor is not a violent man.

His first opponent not only defeated him, but left him unconscious for two days.

“Lord Igor, of course, would not let that be embarrassing enough,” continued Yefrem. “He paid Yuliya extra to come to Viktor in his sick bed and berate him for being a weak coward who could never defend a woman.”

Syra closed her fist around the Bone Doll, which lay dormant in her pocket now, and wished she could fight people who were long gone. “That was a cruel trick.”

Yefrem nodded before shuffling away.

Syra went to Viktor. He was carefully sharpening the gutting knife that she had gifted him. She touched her throat. She no longer had her beaded necklace.

“What sort of woman does a Ruthenian lord marry?” she asked. “The daughter of a Prince, like your knights?”

Viktor closed his eyes for a moment and then, not looking up, said, “There aren’t enough Prince’s daughters to go around.”

She cocked her head. “The rest of you are unmarriageable?”

“We’ll marry another noble,” he said quietly.

“Your sister is engaged,” Syra said. “Do you have an intended?”

When he looked up at her, Viktor was pallid with two rosy blooms on his cheeks. “I never proved myself worthy of a match.”

“It’s not about proving yourself,” she said. “You are worthy just as you are.”

Viktor shook his head and returned to sharpening the knife.

Once they had rested and Yefrem had secured them fresh supplies, Syra and Viktor continued northeastward.

The next day, they stopped at Kholm; and Syra avoided the retaining wall where Viktor had first kissed her.

For the most part, they didn’t speak while traveling either, which reminded Syra of the early days of their journey.

That made her sad, but she had nothing to say to Viktor and so remained quiet.

After Kholm, she spotted the half-rotted hunter’s hut where she and Viktor had lain back-to-back in the same bedroll.

And they kept walking.

She spent most of her days trying to remember any and everything her grandfather had taught her about making talismans like the Bone Doll. At night, she tried to read omens in the stars in case there was an answer there. After a few days, she thought she had pieces but not the whole.

In Vishnaya, the cherry trees had lost their pink blossoms and now wore bright green leaves.

But the Bloom and Bramble Inn was exactly the same as she remembered: painted in bright red with a small tavern in the front.

The same brown-eyed innkeeper greeted them, and offered them the same pair of cozy rooms.

But rather than retreating into her own room, Syra leaned against the doorframe of Viktor’s room. She remembered aloud, “In the banya, there were two women talking about how pretty you are.”

Viktor turned bright red, dropping his pack awkwardly on the cot in the far corner. “I am glad to serve as … art … for the people of Vishnaya.”

“I thought they were right,” she said.

He soothed the front of his caftan, his head lowered. His voice was quiet. “Back then I was sure you hated me.”

“I hadn’t wanted to leave my family,” she admitted.

“And you were right to think so.” He smiled brokenly. “I’m not much of an honorable man.”

She considered him for a long moment. “You made a mistake. A grave one. But you are trying to right what you did wrong. Is that not honorable?”

“Syra…” Viktor met her gaze, his amber eyes gleaming. “I want to be honorable, I want to be brave, I want to be good. For you. But I don’t want to be like Dobrynya. I don’t want to give up my woman.”

She pressed her hand to her chest, where her heart stuttered painfully. His woman. She held her breath as he stepped forward so she wouldn’t inhale his cinnamon-scent.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I just don’t know if I can trust you. But perhaps I can try.”

“I will do anything to earn your trust,” he rasped. “I will beg. I will grovel on my belly. I will–”

Syra silenced Viktor with a finger to his lips. His cheeks turned a fetching color of red again; and his chest rose and fell along with his rapid breaths. “Always tell me the truth. Even when it’s hard. And be Viktor. No one else.”

He nodded.

Letting her finger drag down his chin and then throat, she leaned forward and then kissed him.

She was soft and tentative at first, tasting the man who had both endangered and saved her.

When he moaned against her mouth, desire flickered to light – hot and red inside her.

Slowly, Syra folded her arms around his shoulders, deepening the kiss. He settled his hands on her waist.

Eventually, she sighed and pulled back, letting her gaze drift across Viktor’s face. His bright eyes, his arched nose, his full lips.

“I want you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“Love?” Syra echoed before kissing him again, her desire a deep thrum in her belly.

Viktor cradled her, kissing her back. His body was hard; and she pressed against him, relishing the feel of his wiry muscles.

He felt like a man. Her man. She tangled her fingers in his orange hair, holding him in place as she savored his mouth.

When their tongues brushed against each other, a gaping need opened inside her and she moaned.

His grip tightened as though Viktor knew that Syra needed to feel him.

He pressed her against the doorframe, then, and kissed her so hard and deep that she lost her sense of time.

Finally, they both came up for air.

Viktor rested his forehead against hers. “I am yours, Syra. Always.”

They stood there, holding each other, for a long time, saying nothing.