Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Opposites Attract

She changed into her pyjamas and sat down in a large armchair in her bedroom. The room, for once, looked lived in. After all, she'd spent the last four nights in it. It had taken Anya two days, after Semra's visit, to gather her courage to go to his bedroom during the day, when she knew he'd be in his study, and to pick up her clothes, her brush, and her cosmetics from his ensuite. She had thought venomously then that she was jammy that she had so few possessions. It had felt like a micro break-up - and she kept ordering herself to stop comparing moving a couple of bottles of skin serum and a pair of bottoms back to her bathroom, to uprooting her whole life after a divorce.

She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. She could just go to bed, she thought suddenly. Knowing him, if she just chickened out and hid under her blanket, and then blamed it on her exhaustion the next day at breakfast, he'd be his usual considerate and understanding self, and reassure her, and probably not even ask her when it was a good time to talk again. About him potentially dying during the operation and leaving her behind. Alone. Without him.

Anya sat up sharply, angrily rubbed her wet eyes, and told herself to stop being a moron. And an idiot. And a daft moo-moo. And her normal self, pessimistic, prone to catastrophising... and starved for affection. Basically, all the 'best' qualities a Russian, a Jew, and a Tatar could have. She folded in half and pressed her face into her knees.

Can I have just a small break? Please? Just a bit of peace and quiet? Is it too much to ask? I am grateful, don't get me wrong, she internally addressed some unknown deity. The only thing I've been secretly asking for - the only thing I didn't manage to stop myself from asking for - was him.

Honestly, she'd tried. She'd remind herself what she was, and the abyss that lay between them, and all those cruel hard truths that pointed at why it just wasn't going to happen - and it just never worked. And then she'd gotten what she wanted - and the blows just kept coming. In a way having known the pure, absolute joy of being with him, going back to being on her own would be endlessly more excruciating.

Please. Please. Please, let him get through this. He can literally dump her as soon as he opens his eyes after the operation. She can start packing now. Just let him survive and get better.

Anya groaned and rose. She needed to at least eat, to compensate for the lack of sleep. She could ring Mrs. Little and order herself a tray. She'd seen Klaus do that; and at the very beginning they'd done it for Varya, while she'd been still recovering after the blizzard. If only Anya were posh enough for that.

She knocked at his door. He opened it, and she already started saying that she needed to go to the kitchen first before she could come back to their conversation, when he pointed behind him.

"I've saved some of the supper for you." He gave her a soft smile. "I ate in my bedroom, and Mrs. Little was so kind as to bring some extras for you. It's just a couple of sandwiches and a few bites of this and that, but at least you don't have to put it together yourself."

"Oh thank goodness," Anya exhaled.

She was so hungry and so tired at this stage that some nasty black spots were dancing in her vision.

"Do you want to take the tray to your room, or stay?" he asked, his face nonchalant.

Anya didn't have any energy for this social dance, so she muttered, "I'll stay," walked by him, dropped her bottom in the chair next to a small table in his bedroom, and picked up a ham sarnie right away. He, of course, was being considerate; but also, the last four days had been sort of odd. She chewed and threw him a look. He stood by the door, sort of tense and awkward - which was as un-Klaus as possible. The man was an embodiment of confidence and panache - even when his body wasn't a hundred percent adept.