Roma rose onto his elbows. In a blink, he was hovering above her, their noses already brushing, lips so close that the proximity was itself a tangible sensation. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “Not of us. Not ever.”
His hand brushed her neck; his thumb smoothed across her jaw. Time seemed to crawl to a stop, creating a little pocket for just the two of them.
“I will stare fear in the face,” Juliette promised quietly. “I will dare to love you, Roma Montagov, and if the city cuts me down for it, then so be it.”
A beat passed. Another. Then Roma pressed his lips to hers with such ferocity that Juliette gasped, the sound immediately muffled when she pushed herself up and drew closer. Despite his burning energy, Juliette felt Roma’s mouth move with sincerity, felt his adoration while he trailed kisses all down her neck.
“Juliette,” he whispered. Both of their coats came off. Roma had the zip of her dress pulled in seconds too, and Juliette lifted her arms to accommodate. “My darling, darling Juliette.”
The dress fell to the floor. With some disbelief, Roma suddenly blinked, his eyes clearing for the briefest moment while she worked at his shirt buttons.
“Are you trying to impale me?” he asked, pulling the knife from the sheath around her thigh and setting it aside.
His shirt joined her dress on the floor. Juliette ripped the sheath off too, tossing it onto the pile.
“What’s a little light stabbing between lovers?”
Juliette had intended it as a joke, but Roma turned serious, gazing at her with his dark eyes. His hand had been curled around her elbow, but now he trailed his touch up her arm, drawing goose bumps in his wake. Juliette didn’t quite understand the hesitation until his fingers settled gingerly at her shoulder, tracing the newly healed wound there. The one he had made.
“Is it going to scar?” he whispered.
“Let it,” Juliette replied. “It’ll remind you that you can’t get rid of me that easily.”
A smile quirked at his lips, but still he didn’t let Juliette brush the matter away. What Juliette tried to shake off, to tamp down and forget, Roma hauled out into the light and forced them both to face. What Roma refused to combat, Juliette fought head-on, dragging them both into the scuffle. That was why they worked so well together. They balanced the other depending on what the other needed.
Roma leaned down. He brushed his face against hers, then pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, dorogaya.”
“Qīn’ài de,” Juliette whispered back, tucking an errant piece of his hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry too.”
She pulled Roma close once more, meeting his lips. It was hard to voice the extent of their penance, hard to put into words exactly how much they needed to apologize for the bloodshed between them. Instead, they begged for a lifetime of pardon from each other through touch, through tender caresses and pounding hearts raging in tandem.
With effort, Juliette finally managed to get Roma’s belt off. It hit the floor beside the mattress and clanked against her knife, striking a discordant sound that made Roma jump. Juliette let out a small laugh, cupping his face. “Well, don’t be nervous.”
In the dim moonlight, Roma arched a brow. “Nervous? Me?” He kissed her again, intent on proving it. And again, and again.
“Juliette,” he whispered eventually.
“Mhmm?”
“Is this okay?”
“It’s perfect.”
Outside, the night raged on, awash with warfare and terror. There was no telling when it would stop, when the shelling would cease and the picket lines would fall back. There was no telling if this city would ever be whole again. With each passing moment, the world could fall to pieces; with each passing moment, a total collapse approached, some inevitable finality that had been looming since the first lines of division were drawn in this city.
Juliette breathed out, sinking her hands into the sheets.
But that was not here yet. That was not the present; that was not this moment, this heartbeat of time locked in by heady breaths and gentle worship. It was distant to Juliette, and she would let it remain at a distance, so long as she could have this—here, now, perfect: her soul as boundless as the sea, her love as deep.
Thirty-Three
April 1927
The grass under Juliette’s feet was damp, leaving dew on her polished shoes as she shifted under the shade of the tree. She scratched at her ankle, then winced when her finger caught the metal of her shoe buckle. She inspected her hand. No blood. No scratch. Instead, she felt covered in grit, an unwashable taint upon her skin.