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Chapter Fifteen

Petyr

W e were walking fast—half jogging, really—our coats flapping open in the wind like cloaks in some ridiculous fairy tale. But I couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. Vera’s plan was working. Her absurd, brilliant, carefully orchestrated plan.

Not only did Dimitri and I get a precious few hours together under the convenient smokescreen of his “courtship” with Mira, but Vera and Mira got theirs too. Everyone won. Or at least, that was the hope.

Vera had practically project-managed our lives from the moment we met.

She’d been the one to suggest marriage—not out of love or duty, but pure strategy.

“A husband and a Party wife,” she’d said, lips barely moving over her teacup, “is the safest kind of camouflage for people like us.” And she hadn’t been wrong.

People saw the wedding band and the factory jobs and the modest apartment and thought: nothing to see here.

Still, I hated keeping things from Dimitri.

He didn’t know Vera was like us. He didn’t know she was the one who encouraged Mira to flirt with him.

And he sure as hell didn’t know Mira wasn’t interested in him, not like that.

But this wouldn’t last forever. We’d get out, all of us. We’d be ourselves.

Someday.

We turned the corner, and there it was, or rather, wasn’t. The old bathhouse. Empty. No figures lingering by the boarded-up door, no cigarette glow, no music muffled through stone. Just wind and dark brick.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Dimitri looked at me, his brow furrowed. My pulse ticked upward.

“If it’s not here, it must’ve moved again. Last time, it was only a few blocks away.” I took his hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then let go. “Come on. I think I know where it went.”

We picked up the pace, boots clapping over the pavement.

My frustration simmered. We’d had so little time together lately, and I needed this.

Not just the sex—though I was half mad with wanting him—but the privacy.

The relief of it. Of not having to pretend.

Sanctuary was the only place in the entire city where we could lower our guard.

I scanned the alley ahead. And then I saw a man standing near a rusted dumpster, smoking and glancing around the way someone does when they’re looking for a signal. His posture, his face—I knew him. A regular. I had last seen him draped over an older man in a fur coat, laughing into his ear.

“Wait here,” I told Dimitri, already moving.

I approached casually, hands in my coat pockets. No names. No questions that could be repeated. Just glances, gestures, code. He flicked his ash, then tilted his head toward the street behind him, and muttered, “Mozart’s ghost.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

He didn’t respond.

I turned back to Dimitri, who looked like he might burst with nerves and curiosity. “It’s at the GUM store. The one that just closed down. Basement level.”

Dimitri blinked. “The department store?”

I grinned. “Apparently it’s more useful now.”

We took off running again, laughter threatening to escape from somewhere deep in my chest. For the first time in weeks, we were almost free.

The heavy neon letters of the GUM store loomed somewhere ahead in the dark.

But it wasn’t enough—not yet. I needed one moment, one kiss, something to anchor me before we stepped into the shadows of the club.

There was an alley up ahead—narrow, half-lit, reeking faintly of old garbage.

I caught Dimitri by the wrist and yanked him sideways, and before he could ask why, I pressed him against the crumbling brick wall and kissed him like I’d never kissed anyone before.

Because I hadn’t. Not like this. Not like I might die without it.

He gasped softly against my mouth, and then his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer. His lips were cold, but he warmed fast. We kissed like the world was ending, like we’d been waiting all our this minute, this heartbeat.

His hands were under my coat, his chest against mine, our breaths crashing together in little white clouds.

I wanted more. I wanted everything. Right there, right then.

The risk didn’t matter. The cold didn’t matter.

All I knew was the burn of his mouth, the sound he made when I kissed him, the way he clutched my coat like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

But then—he stopped.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice thick and hoarse. “We can’t get caught.”

His forehead pressed against mine for a second longer, just long enough for me to catch my breath. I nodded. My hands were still on his waist, reluctant to let go.

“Right,” I said, barely recognizing my voice. “You’re right.”

We pulled away from each other slowly, like something delicate was breaking between us.

Then we ran.

Down the alley, across the slick pavement, past shuttered shops and posters peeling off the walls. I caught sight of the GUM’s faded signage up ahead, the windows boarded, the doors chained. But around the side—there. A metal staircase leading down into the dark.

Sanctuary.

I glanced at Dimitri and saw it in his eyes. That same mix of fear and hunger and something dangerously close to joy. We didn’t say a word as we descended into the shadows.

The stairs groaned beneath our boots. Damp concrete pressed in close, graffiti and old flyers peeling away from the walls.

At the bottom, a heavy metal door stood in our path.

There wasn’t a sign, no handle, just a slit at eye level and a faint vibration of bass, muffled but steady, pulsing like a hidden heartbeat.

I knocked—three short, two long, one short. My heart stuttered, matching the rhythm.

The slit scraped open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. I leaned in and whispered, “Mozart’s ghost.”

A pause. Then the door unlatched with a mechanical thunk and creaked open just far enough for us to slip through.

Inside, warm air enveloped us, scented with cigarette smoke, sweat, and something faintly floral—cheap perfume or maybe hope.

The music was a low thread in the background, barely audible over the hush of whispered conversations and the occasional clink of glass.

A shadowy figure in a red velvet waistcoat took our coats, and Dimitri handed over a few rubles with a quiet, “thanks.”

His eyes widened as we stepped into the main room.

“This place is…” he began, glancing around. “Much nicer than the old bathhouse.”

I grinned. “Someone’s been busy.”

The space was low-ceilinged and sprawling, with concrete pillars like sentries between clusters of mismatched furniture—velvet armchairs, chipped tables, a threadbare rug or two. But what caught the eye were the mannequins.

At least a dozen of them, repurposed from the GUM’s former days, stood like silent patrons scattered around the room.

Someone had dressed them in faded sequin gowns, vintage gloves, costume pearls.

One wore a powdered wig and a feather boa.

Another had a military cap and a floor-length tulle skirt, lipstick smeared just so.

They looked like ghosts of a queerer, grander past, holding court in their crumbling palace.

Only a handful of real people were here this early.

Two men in conversation at the bar, a lone woman in a tuxedo smoking near the stage, a couple swaying half-heartedly near the back.

It was still early. The crowd wouldn’t arrive until later, when the city’s more watchful eyes turned in for the night.

A melody drifted from the corner speakers—soft piano, rich strings, a voice smooth and mournful like a lullaby sung through cigarette smoke. Dimitri stopped beside me, head tilted slightly, and sighed.

“I love this one,” he said.

Something in his tone caught me—unfamiliar, unguarded. I looked at him. The light from the chandelier above caught in his hair, casting a halo of gold.

I held out my hand. “Dance with me.”

He blinked, startled. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy,” I said, stepping closer. “Just follow me.”

He hesitated, then slipped his hand into mine. My other hand settled at the small of his back. His breath caught, but he didn’t pull away. He let me guide him, our bodies swaying in time with the music—slow, deliberate steps. A lazy waltz.

We moved together through the space like we belonged there. Like this was normal. Like men could do this in public without fear.

The mannequins watched us, shimmering in their decaying finery.

Dimitri’s hand gripped mine a little tighter.

I felt the tremble in his fingers. His eyes were locked on mine—uncertain at first, but then something softened in them.

Trust. Or maybe it was love? I could feel it in how he breathed, how he let himself lean into me, how his chest rose and fell in time with mine.

We danced in a slow circle under the weak glow of chandelier light and the watchful stillness of painted eyes.

The world faded. No families, and no factory. No fake wives or secrets. Just the two of us and the music.

He stepped closer, our foreheads brushing. His breath warmed my cheek as the song faded away.

“I never wanted the song to end,” he whispered. “I’d be happy spending the rest of my days in your arms.”

A tear slipped free before I could stop it, traitorous and hot against the cold of my cheek.

Dimitri reached up and wiped it away with his thumb, tender and reverent. His touch lingered.

“Petyr…” he murmured.

I couldn’t speak. I just kissed his palm.

The music faded, and the spell thinned but didn’t break.

We stayed like that for a moment longer, then let our arms drop. The world waited. But for now, we weren’t done with the dream.

“Come on,” I breathed. “Let’s find somewhere less… observed.”