The Darkness Within

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

The following week, Sergei keeps his promise. Flying on a private jet, we cross two continents, and arrive in Athens.

A dozen guards accompany us on the spacious jet, sitting in a separate compartment. Another dozen wait for us when we land.

Sergei is perfectly alert on the ride to our destination—likely a hotel. His sharp eyes stare out the window, and I can feel him documenting his surroundings. Finding a puzzle in everything and solving it with the speed that only a genius can.

He has his arm around me, holding me to his side, which I don't mind anywhere near as much as I should. Instead of hating the warmth and proximity of his body—I've never been touchy-feely, apparently would glare at people if they got too close as an infant—it feels calming. Normally I'm the alert one at all times, but I know Sergei wouldn't miss anything, and for some inexplicable reason I trust him to keep an eye out.

Leo's in a pet carrier beside me, sleeping. I didn't have to ask Sergei to bring him—he whisked the small cat into a carrier when the time came for the airport without prompting.

"How fluent are you in Greek?" Sergei asks, still staring at the window.

"I wrote my essay during finals in the language. Got 100%, plus 5% for curve and extra credit," I answer automatically.

A chuckle escapes him. "Of course, you did. My mistake for asking."

I shrug as much as his arm allows. Then, feeling strangely talkative, "It wasn't particularly difficult. My father was a language teacher, as you probably already know, so I already knew Russian, English, and Spanish by the time he died. Knew how to read and write in all of them, as well. The Greek language has a Cyrillic alphabet, very similar to the Russian one—which is really just Slavic Cyrillic—so picking up on writing the language was easier. Greek and Russian also share some unique conversational punctuation etiquettes."

Sergei peels his eyes from the window, and stares at me with something bordering amazement in his eyes.

After a moment, he questions, "How many languages do you actually speak?"

"Officially, and with native fluency? French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Greek, Latin, English, Russian, Mandarin, and Vietnamese."

His eyes blaze with a mixture of lust and fascination. "The romance languages, and then some. How about unofficially?"

For some reason, his stark interest makes me slightly shy. I've never had my achievements or qualities examined under a microscope, and it makes me feel stripped bare. Even though we're only talking about my linguistic abilities, it's vulnerable.

"Since I speak Russian, the rest of the Slavic languages came fairly easily. They all share major points of dialect."

"Ukrainian, Polish, Czech, and Croatian?"

I nod.

His laugh is astonished. "Any others?"

I pause before answering, because the normally large bulge in his pants starts to grow until it looks painful. "Romanian, German, Cherokee, and Gaelic. But not with native fluency, just conversationally with reading/mild writing skills. I understand and can converse fairly well in Arabic and Swahili, but I'm pretty sure I have an American accent, and don't know the alphabets."

"You're as good with languages as I am with numbers," he murmurs, and then leans down to kiss me. One of his hands rests on my neck, but it doesn't frighten me, since I know he's just measuring my pulse. I can feel it going wild underneath his thumb, a flurry of movement. The kiss is deep, passionate, and so demanding it takes my breath away.