Chapter 79

Chapter 79

On the day of the Olympic final, I slept late for the first time in years.

A knock at the door woke me mid-morning. I sat up, and Heath’s arm, which had ended up across my waist in the middle of the night, slid away into the rumpled bedding. The sun sparkled over the Black Sea outside our window, and I felt rested, limber, ready.

Until I put my foot down on the carpet, and a starburst of pain flared out to my toes.

Another knock. “I’ll get it,” Heath mumbled.

He went to the door, rolling his neck, which set off a series of harsh cracks, like chain link unraveling. His back was always at its worst first thing in the morning, but not that bad. Maybe his body had acclimated too much to the meds.

All we needed to do was get through the four minutes of our free dance. One way or another, by the end of the day, our competitive careers would be over.

I checked my phone and found two texts from Ellis. The first said he was going out to brunch with Kirk, so we’d have the room to ourselves until the afternoon—followed by a suggestive winky smiley face. He’d be so disappointed to know that all we’d done was sleep.

The second was a heads-up that our relocation to the Radisson had leaked, and there were reporters outside waiting for us. Great.

Heath returned carrying a large white box. I shifted back, immediately suspicious.

“What is that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The card says it’s from…” His eyes widened. “Yelena.”

He set the box on the bed and showed me the note, handwritten in pretty Cyrillic script.

“Read it,” I said.

“It says she had this couriered overnight from Moscow. For you.”

I ran my fingers over the smooth edge of the box, half expecting it to spring some sort of trap, metal teeth clamping down on my hand.

“?‘We are competitors, but we do not have to be enemies,’?” Heath read. “?‘I look forward to competing with you today. May the best team triumph.’?”

“You really trust her?” I asked.

“More than the rest of them.” He set the card down. “You want to open it, or should I?”

“I’ll do it.” I dug a nail under the tape holding the box shut. “But if there’s blood in here, I’m bringing it to the Skating Palace tonight and going full Carrie on this bitch.”

Heath watched over my shoulder as I lifted the lid and peeled back the tissue paper.

Inside was a skating costume—intended to replace my ruined one, I assumed. A lovely gesture, but there was no way in hell I could fit into Yelena Volkova’s clothes.

Heath held the garment up for a closer look. Sunlight caught the gilt trim, and I gasped.

“What?” he said.

I took the dress from him and held it against my body, running my hands over the fine fabric. Amazingly enough, it looked like a perfect fit.

“You were right,” I said. “Yelena is not at all what I thought.”

Although I would absolutely be checking the lining for thorns or poison spikes or any other sign of treachery before I actually put the thing on; I’d learned my lesson.

“I hate that she has to skate with that psycho,” Heath said.

“Dmitri?” I laid the dress on the unmade bed. “He seems kind of full of himself, but—”

“Trust me,” Heath said. “My one regret about leaving Russia is that Yelena was stuck partnering with him. The guy is a nightmare, and even Veronika won’t discipline him.”

“Because his grandpa’s a big-shot mob boss or whatever?”

“Not just his grandfather. His whole family. They’re bad people.”

“Your scars,” I said. “Did Dmitri have anything to do with…with what happened?”

Heath hesitated. I watched the warring desires skirmish on his face. A part of him longed to surrender to my curiosity; another part wanted to keep defending the barriers he’d built up to protect himself. I couldn’t force him. I couldn’t rush him. He had to be the one to tear down the walls, brick by brick—and whenever he was ready, I’d be waiting on the other side.

He paced toward the window and stared out at the sea. Then, finally, he began to speak.

“Around the time Nikita retired, Dmitri’s previous partner quit the sport. So Veronika invited him to try out with Yelena. That old church building was impossible to heat, and Dmitri came on one of the coldest days of the year.”

I tried to picture Heath there, but all I could think of was him shivering in the stable—only without me to bring him blankets, to press my body close to his and rub life back into his ice-cold hands.

“Yelena kept making mistakes, and Dmitri wouldn’t stop berating her. Veronika stood there and let him do it. So I took him aside and told him to knock it off.” Heath finally looked at me, fresh rage still smoldering in his eyes. “And he shoved me through a stained-glass window.”

“Jesus.”

“I think it was Saint Andrew, actually.”

“Very funny.” I pushed against his arm. He grimaced. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. That merciless pummeling you gave me last night helped.”

“You’re welcome.” I considered what he’d told me. “What if it’s Dmitri? Maybe he’s been the one sabotaging us all along, and the Volkovas didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Thorns in skates and butcher shop blood on the bed seemed like extreme measures to rattle your opponents, even in a notoriously dramatic sport like skating. For the Russian mob, though? That was child’s play.

Heath shook his head. “Dmitri’s not smart enough to put together a plan like that. Not on his own. He reminds me of your brother, actually—all dumb brute force, zero impulse control.”

He reached for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, tapping out two white pills.

“You want any?” he asked.

I waved him off. “They didn’t do much last night. Guess I’ll just have to tough it out.”

“If there’s one thing you’re good at, Katarina Shaw, it’s toughing it out.”

I touched his arm again, sure to be gentle this time.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“I’m sorry too.” He laid his hand over mine. “Cause you’d’ve kicked that pretty boy’s ass, and I would sure have loved to see that.”

I thought about the way Dmitri came at us before the short dance, the chilly menace in his eyes. After I shoved him, he refused all forms of help, growling like a feral dog at anyone foolish enough to approach him—the medics, his coach, his partner, even sweet little Francesca Gaskell.

I hadn’t been there when he gave Heath those scars. But the best revenge would be kicking Dmitri’s ass today—and now, thanks to Yelena, I’d look damn good doing it.

“Better get moving,” I said. “We have gold medals to win.”