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are dangerous.
    Regretfully, my heart feels as though it’s about to burst out of my chest. I pull away, breaking the sweetest of contacts I’ve had with another in a very, very long time.
    She brushes my hair back from where it has fallen over my forehead. I want to lean into her touch, to let her linger longer. I can’t remember the last time I was touched like this. Maybe when I was a child, before my mother sent me to live with my grandfather.
    “There. Now you look like the Roman I know,” she pronounces. “Seller of rare books and procurer of romance novels.”
    You don’t know me at all , I think sadly. I bring death even while I right wrongs . “Thank you.” I rise to my full height and brush at the invisible lint on the cuffs of my sleeves. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my friend.”
    “Oh,” she says, as if remembering we aren’t the only two people in my shop. Her earlier terror is gone, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go easier on Petrov when I find him. Quite the opposite actually. “You go on; I need to leave in a few minutes anyway. I’ll see you Friday night for our first class. It’s at seven, so we can eat before we go or after. Or…you don’t have to eat with me at all.”
    Like a date? And what happened to having lunch with her? Stupid man—you can’t have lunch with her. You can’t have anything with her at all, beyond these walls. Meeting with her in the park was fucking madness. “What if we pick the same restaurant? Shall we sit at separate tables and pretend not to know one another?”
    She tilts her head to one side again. Adorably, I might add. “Are you flirting with me, Roman?”
    I catch sight of my customer leaning against the counter, his inquisitive eyes missing nothing. He’s amused by us, I realize.
    Suddenly, I can’t respond in kind to her. It feels wrong. My instincts are warning me to stop this flirtation.
    I shrug. “I’m not sure of my dinner plans yet. I’ll meet you at class, yes?”
    “Sure. Whatever. See you at class,” she answers with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about lunch this week or whenever. I, ah, forgot I have plans with my out-of-town guest.” A lie. The air vibrates with it. I’ve just hurt her. Again. There’s no way she’ll push for more.
    “Brilliant.” I focus my attention on the man at the counter, watching Everly gather her things in my peripheral vision. She looks defeated.
    She turns suddenly, her mouth opening like she has more to say, and my body tenses. Then she gives herself a little shake, and her mouth snaps shut. She hitches the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, scooping the box of books into her arms before barreling toward the front of the store.
    The door opens with a bang, from her hip hitting against it. The cat I found in the alleyway slips out with her, flicking its tail proudly. I stand there, watching as both of them disappear from view.

Chapter Four
    “W omen. Always wanting what they can’t have, eh?” Viktor Chapeyev knows about the shooting and Everly’s role in saving me. He always knows.
    At fifty-five, he’s still just as intimidating as the first time I met him as a boy of twelve. Same white-blond hair, same black eyes, and same charming smile. A great many have met their Maker after seeing Viktor’s visage. Sixteen years later, none of that has changed.
    “She’s spooked from Petrov’s handiwork and wants me to take self-defense classes with her,” I explain.
    Piercing, black eyes assess my words. “She knows nothing?”
    “Less than zero,” I mutter as he passes a book to me.
    “I’m interested in selling this,” he says.
    I turn it over and read the title. The Secret Lives of Kings . “Royalty,” I say, nonplussed.
    Besides the implication of the title, there are only three copies of this 1835 tome in the entire world. When it was published, kingdoms came tumbling down, because it created such a stir. Newspapers,