Zoya knows better. Sturmhond is Nikolai as Nikolai is Sturmhond, but she at least doesn't utter the name. It's too familiar, and while it's a little too easy to fall into something that feels like an old kefta—worn, a little frayed, comfortable—she's aware of it being slightly discoloured. At least to him.
Had Nikolai ever told her there was a time when he considered hanging up his eye patch and toy parrot? The idea is strange. It's not one she'd ever allow, as his friend or anything else.
"I'll choose to believe you were incredibly challenged, if only to stop your ugly pouting."
As much as she wishes to tease him, Zoya knows there's a wall between them. She thinks it existed in some capacity before as something thin, often in the capacity of his (really, her) search for a bride. Now, it feels different and thicker.
She'd much like to bury her head in the sand and pretend the easiness she feels isn't something she's lucky to have stumbled across, but Zoya's never liked sand and she's never been one to enjoy stumbling through the dark.
Any teasing is gone from her face as she regards him seriously. This time, her words lack any bite, and her tone is significantly lower. "What do you know of me?"
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Zoya knows better. Sturmhond is Nikolai as Nikolai is Sturmhond, but she at least doesn't utter the name. It's too familiar, and while it's a little too easy to fall into something that feels like an old kefta—worn, a little frayed, comfortable—she's aware of it being slightly discoloured. At least to him.
Had Nikolai ever told her there was a time when he considered hanging up his eye patch and toy parrot? The idea is strange. It's not one she'd ever allow, as his friend or anything else.
"I'll choose to believe you were incredibly challenged, if only to stop your ugly pouting."
As much as she wishes to tease him, Zoya knows there's a wall between them. She thinks it existed in some capacity before as something thin, often in the capacity of his (really, her) search for a bride. Now, it feels different and thicker.
She'd much like to bury her head in the sand and pretend the easiness she feels isn't something she's lucky to have stumbled across, but Zoya's never liked sand and she's never been one to enjoy stumbling through the dark.
Any teasing is gone from her face as she regards him seriously. This time, her words lack any bite, and her tone is significantly lower. "What do you know of me?"