Page 24

Chapter Twenty-One

Dimitri

T he engine clattered as Papa drove, the tires humming against the patched asphalt. I hadn’t said much since we left Leningrad, but I couldn’t stop smiling. My face hurt in a good way, like I’d been standing in the sun too long and had the tan to prove it.

Papa noticed.

“I haven’t seen you this happy in years,” he said, squinting at the road like it had offended him. “All these smiles just for three days in the woods?”

I shrugged, trying to act casual, but the corners of my mouth wouldn’t behave. “I just really need to get away. Enjoy some peace and quiet. No looms. No shouting, and no green wool for a hundred kilometers.”

Papa snorted. “It’s not a monastery, Dimitri. Factory dacha or not, there’ll be other workers.”

“Not this weekend,” I said, barely holding back the grin. “It’s my turn. All mine.”

The trees outside the car had turned from sickly city birch to healthier, taller pines.

Their shadows flickered over the windshield in rhythmic stripes.

Every few kilometers we passed a battered sign pointing to someone’s dacha, or a weather-beaten fence wrapped in rusted wire.

I rolled down the window and breathed in the forest. Wet moss.

Sap. Smoke from some unseen chimney. It smelled like freedom.

Papa glanced over at me. “Shame this dacha’s too far from where your mother is. You could’ve paid her a visit.”

I nodded, then leaned my head against the window. “Yeah… it is a shame.”

“I’ll drop off some things for her,” he said. “She asked for black bread and pickles. Probably won’t see her long.”

He was in a good mood, too. Looser in his shoulders. Chatty. Maybe he was just glad for a quiet weekend. Or maybe—

“Are you going to stay with her?” I asked, just to test the waters.

He shook his head quickly. “No. Got a few things going on in town. Can’t be out in the country all weekend.”

Which meant he was probably looking forward to having the apartment to himself. Rare luxury, that—being alone. Nobody watching. Nobody listening. No need for small talk or quiet pretending.

He launched into a story about some coworker, Gena or Gosha or something, who’d tried to impress a new supervisor by offering him salted fish and ended up reeking of brine for a week. I nodded and laughed in the right places, but my thoughts had drifted.

To him.

Petyr.

Just the two of us, alone for the first time. Not sneaking around in shadows or half-dressed in some storeroom or stealing moments like thieves. No clocks. No pressure. Just time with my man.

It didn’t even matter if the place was a shack. My parents’ dacha was practically held together by string and superstition, but I thought of falling asleep beside Petyr… waking up with him in the soft morning light, his arms around me, undisturbed by alarms or knocking…

“Is this the place where I turn?” Papa’s voice cut through my fantasy.

I blinked, looked down at the folded directions Vera had scrawled on the back of an old party flyer. “Yeah. That’s the turn. Another two miles after that.”

He nodded and took the left, the tires bumping along a narrow, rutted road. More pine trees. A clearing up ahead. I tried to focus on his story about someone’s cousin getting a rooster drunk, but my brain slipped back to the dacha. To Petyr. To wanting him.

Not just holding-hands-in-the-moonlight wanting.

But wanting. The kind that curled deep in my gut and made my chest tight.

The kind that had me counting the minutes until we could be alone, really alone.

I hated when my thoughts turned crude, but Petyr brought that out in me.

Before him, desire had been something abstract.

Something you buried. Something you feared.

Now? It was fire. Constant and unrelenting.

The dacha appeared like a miracle, small but standing. Wood walls, freshly painted in dull Soviet green. A bit crooked at the roofline, but it had a little porch and even a chimney.

“Not bad,” Papa said as he cut the engine.

There were three rooms inside, Vera had said. Living space, kitchen, bedroom. It even had indoor plumbing. My parents’ dacha didn’t even have a well.

Papa helped me carry my bag inside. He whistled when he saw the little kitchen and the clean enamel sink. “Damn. This is better than ours. Who’d you bribe?”

“I guess the factory wants us to feel appreciated,” I said, barely keeping the sarcasm out of my voice.

He dropped the bag by the sofa, then turned to me. He took my shoulders in both hands and looked me dead in the eyes.

His voice dropped low. Not angry. Just serious.

“Don’t forget where you are.”

The smile on my face faltered.

Then he let go, patted my cheek once, and turned for the door. “Enjoy your weekend, synok.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

The door shut behind him.

I stood in the silence for a long moment. Then I crossed the room and flopped onto the couch. The cushions groaned under me, probably older than I was. A puff of dust rose and settled in the shafts of morning light, cutting through the window.

I stared at the ceiling and let myself exhale fully for the first time.

“I can’t wait for tonight,” I murmured.

Just the two of us.

And an entire weekend that might as well have been a lifetime.

* * *

The dacha smelled like onions and cabbage, with a hint of dill and something vaguely smoky I couldn’t identify—probably the ancient stove’s contribution.

I stirred the pot again, then adjusted the heat.

Not that the dial actually did anything.

I’d scrounged together something that resembled a stew.

Enough for two. Hopefully not terrible. Definitely edible.

The sky outside the small kitchen window had turned a deeper shade of gray-blue. Dusk was slowly creeping in. I kept glancing at the path beyond the porch, hoping to see movement. A figure. A miracle.

Petyr had said Vera would try to let him leave early.

But factory schedules weren’t known for their flexibility, even if your wife was the one giving the orders.

He’d said if he was lucky, he could catch the 4:40 elektrichka.

Then it’d be a walk—maybe two, three kilometers—or a ride if someone heading out this way owed him a favor.

I pictured him standing in the aisle of the rattling train, the countryside slipping by through cracked windows.

I caught myself smiling again. Couldn’t help it.

The dacha, despite its ruggedness, was charming.

I’d swept, dusted, even washed the little windowpanes.

I found a squat record player tucked into a cabinet, along with a warped stack of state-approved vinyl.

A few jazz records. Some orchestral stuff.

I picked one that sounded like romance and let it play.

The scratchy sound was warm, familiar. Like being wrapped in an old sweater.

In a drawer, I found candle stubs—mostly melted, half-bent—and placed them around the main room. They flickered like little beacons, casting golden light over the battered couch and low table.

Everything was ready.

Almost.

I lit the last candle, turned back toward the kitchen, and froze.

Footsteps. Not animals. Not the wind.

Boots on the path.

My heart flew to my throat as I dashed to the door and flung it open.

Petyr stood there, a little breathless, hair windblown, cheeks pink from the cold. His bag dangled from one hand. His other hand was already reaching for me.

That smile. That damn smile that always felt like it was just for me.

“You made it,” I whispered, stepping out onto the porch.

He didn’t say anything—just dropped his bag on the floorboards and surged forward, cupping my face in both hands. His mouth crashed into mine, warm and hungry, and I kissed him back with everything I had. The chill from outside melted between us.

When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to mine.

“I love you,” he said, softly.

I closed my eyes, steadying myself. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And if I don’t dance with you right now, I’m going to explode.”

I laughed and tugged him inside, the music spinning from the record player—an old waltz, slow and sweeping, half-sad and half-hopeful. He took my hand, spun me gently, and we danced in a wide circle around the tiny living room.

The candlelight played on his face, casting him in gold. His hand was warm on my waist. I couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t believe he was here with me. No shadows, no secrets, just us.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I murmured as he pulled me close again, his nose brushing mine.

His lips curled into a wicked grin. “I’m not hungry for food.”

I felt the heat rise in my chest, spreading down through my stomach. His hand slid up my back, slow and deliberate, and the world outside disappeared completely.

I laughed and kissed Petyr one last time before sprinting into the kitchen. The pot on the stove was sputtering angrily, sending little splashes over the edge. I twisted the dial off and slid the pot to the side, the heat still radiating up from the ancient burner.

Behind me, Petyr appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that crooked, smug smile that undid me every damn time. He reached out a hand. “Come on.”

I didn’t hesitate.

He led me down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom, the soft shuffle of our footsteps against the worn wood floors swallowed by the music drifting from the living room. The bedroom was small, barely wide enough for the bed, a chipped wardrobe, and a table with a cracked enamel basin on it.

The curtains were all open.

Even with the sun dipping behind the trees, the last light of day spilled in through the windows, and beyond that, the woods stood still and watchful.

I crossed the room quickly and yanked the curtains shut, one after the other.

The air shifted immediately, turning the room private, intimate, sealed off from the world.

When I turned back, Petyr was already pulling me toward him, our mouths colliding with a hunger we’d been holding back for days. I stumbled into him and we tumbled together onto the bed. We rolled across the quilt, laughing, gasping, kissing like we were both starving.

Petyr pressed me down onto the bed, his hips between my thighs, hands bracketing my face as he kissed me again and again.

Deep, messy kisses, our clothes tugged and bunched but not yet removed, the friction maddening.

His fingers were in my hair, and his mouth trailed to my jaw, my throat, making me arch up with a gasp.

I hooked my leg around his waist and ground up into him. He groaned.

“God, I missed you,” I whispered, breathless.

“You’re here now,” he murmured. “And you’re all mine.”

And then—voices.

Muffled, but unmistakable.

Laughter. Footsteps. A woman’s giggle.

Petyr froze, hovering over me. “What the hell?”

We both went still. The sound came again, closer now. Several voices, male and female, growing louder.

Then a knock. Firm. Not polite.

“Damn it!” I hissed, jerking up to sitting. “Who the fuck…”

Petyr grabbed my wrist before I could bolt for the door. “Dima. Wait. Think.”

I swallowed my anger. He was right. I couldn’t go storming out red-faced and breathless, looking like I’d just been, well, exactly what I’d just been doing.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and nodded.

We moved into the living room, Petyr pulling his sweater straight and me still catching my breath. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

Petyr opened the door.

Standing on the porch were three men we knew from the factory. Anton, Pavel, and Oleg, all clearly drunk, cheeks flushed and coats askew. Behind them were two women I didn’t recognize, one already lighting a cigarette, the other laughing at something Anton had just said.

“What are you guys doing here?” Petyr asked, incredulously.

Anton lifted a bottle of vodka with a grin. “Factory dacha, yeah? Oleg said you guys like to party. Surprise!”