Dmitri stops just close enough that I tilt my head to meet his eyes. The cedar and smoke scent hits me again, and my body responds before I can stop it.
“What else would you be?” The question sounds more like a dare than an inquiry.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think I was ever some quiet, bookish woman.”
“No,” he agrees, gripping my jaw firmly and tilting my face up to his. “You weren’t.”
I draw in a breath. “What do you mean?”
“You were passionate. You had opinions about everything and weren’t afraid to share them. You could argue politics or art or philosophy for hours, and you never backed down from a fight.”
This version of myself sounds more appealing than the withdrawn introvert he described earlier. “Then why did you tell me I was private and preferred books to people?”
“Because I thought it might be easier for you to accept a simpler version of yourself while you recover.”
“Easier for whom? Me, or you?”
His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling for the rapid beat like he’s testing how much fear he can wring out of me.
“I want the truth, Dmitri. All of it. Not the sanitized version you think I can handle.”
“The truth can be complicated.” His hand drifts lower, fingers pressing into the fabric at my collarbone, his touch more possessive than gentle.
His thumb lingers against my skin, a firm press that borders on a warning.
He’s trying to distract me, and every other time, I’ve let it happen. But not now.
“More complicated than waking up with no memory married to a man who terrifies restaurant staff and conducts business that sounds suspiciously like organized crime?”
His hand stills on the top of my breast. “You think I’m in organized crime?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Would that bother you?” His face betrays nothing.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Should it?”
“The woman I married wasn’t bothered by moral ambiguity.”
Another piece of information that contradicts his earlier description. I step back, needing space to think.
“How many versions of myself are you going to give me? First, I’m a quiet introvert. Now, I’m a fierce debater who doesn’t mind criminal activity. Which is it?”
“People are layered. You contained multitudes.”
“Contained. Past tense.”
“Poor choice of words.”
I walk to the window and look out at the Moscow skyline while trying to work through the contradictions in his story.
“I want to see where I worked,” I say without turning around. “The gallery you mentioned. Maybe being there will trigger something.”
“The gallery is closed indefinitely after the bombing.”
“What about my former colleagues? Friends from work?”
“Most of them have moved on to other positions. Different cities.”
