Not Just the Boss's Plaything(25)

"What's the matter with you?" Ivan asked in Russian, frowning into his    camera. "You've been staring off into space for the past fifteen    minutes."

Nikolai chose not to investigate the things that churned in him, dark    and heavy, at the way Ivan managed to convey the worry, the    disappointment and that particular wariness that had always    characterized the way he looked at Nikolai, talked to him, in two simple    sentences after so much silence. And yet there was a part of him that    wanted nothing more than to simply take this as a gift, take his   brother  back in whatever way Ivan was offering himself....

But he couldn't let himself go there. Ivan's silence had been a favor to    him, surely. He knew where it led, and he wanted nothing to do with    that particular prison any longer.

"I'm reeling from shock," he said. "The mighty Ivan Korovin has    condescended to address me directly. I imagine I ought to feel festive    on such a momentous occasion." He eyed Ivan coolly, and without the    faintest hint of festive. "I appreciate the show of concern, of course."

Nikolai could have modified his tone, the sardonic slap of it. Instead,    he kept his face expressionless, his gaze trained on his brother   through  the screen. Your brother is an idiot, Alicia had said, so   emphatically.  It felt like encouragement, like her kind hand against   his cheek even  when she wasn't in the room.

But he didn't want to think about Alicia. She didn't know what he'd done    to deserve the things his brother thought of him. And unlike her    confession of the sins of others, Nikolai really had done each and every    thing Ivan thought he had.

Ivan's mouth flattened and his dark eyes flashed with his familiar temper.

"Two years," he said in that gruff way of his, his long-suffering older    brother voice, "and that's what you have to say to me, Nikolai? Why am  I   not surprised that you've learned nothing in all this time?"

"That's an excellent question," Nikolai replied, his voice so cold he    could feel the chill of it in his own chest. "If you wanted me to learn    something you should have provided some kind of lesson plan. Picked  out   the appropriate hair shirts for me to wear, outlined the  confessions  you  expected me to make and at what intervals. But you  chose instead to   disappear, the way you always do." He shrugged, only  spurred on by the   flash of guilt and fury he knew too well on his  brother's face.  "Forgive  me if I am not weeping with joy that you've  remembered I  exist, with as  much warning as when you decided to forget  it." He  paused, then if  possible, got icier. "Brother."

"Nikolai-"

"You come and you go, Vanya," he said then, giving that darkness in him    free rein. Letting it take him over. Not caring that it wasn't   fair-what  was fair? What had ever been fair? "You make a thousand   promises and  you break them all. I stopped depending on you when I was a   child. Talk  to me or don't talk to me. What is it to me?"                       
       
           



       

Ivan's face was dark with that same complicated fury-his guilt that he'd    left Nikolai years before to fight, his frustrated anger that Nikolai    had turned out so relentlessly feral despite the fact he'd rescued  him,   eventually; even his sadness that this was who they were, these  two  hard  and dangerous men-and Nikolai was still enough his younger  brother  to  read every nuance of that. And to take a kind of pleasure  in the  fact  that despite the passage of all this time, Ivan was not   indifferent.

Which, he was aware, meant he wasn't, either.

"One of these days, little brother, we're going to fight this out," Ivan    warned him, shoving his hands through his dark hair the way he'd no    doubt like to shove them around Nikolai's neck and would have, had this    conversation taken place in person. Nikolai felt himself shift into   high  alert, readying for battle automatically. "No holds barred, the   way we  should have done two years ago. And when I crush you into the   ground,  and I will, this conversation will be one of the many things   you'll  apologize for."

"Is that another promise?" Nikolai asked pointedly, and was rewarded    when Ivan winced. "I understand this is your pet fantasy and always has    been. And you could no doubt win a fight in any ring, to entertain a    crowd. But outside the ring? In real life with real stakes?" Nikolai    shook his head. "You'd be lucky to stay alive long enough to beg for    mercy."

"Why don't you fly to California and test that theory?" Ivan suggested,    his expression turning thunderous. "Or is it easier to say these  things   when there are computer screens and whole continents to hide  behind?"

"You would follow the rules, Vanya," Nikolai said with a certain grim    impatience. "You would fight fair, show mercy. This is who you are." He    shrugged, everything inside of him feeling too sharp, too jagged. "It    will be your downfall."

"Mercy isn't weakness," Ivan growled.

"Only good men, decent men, have the luxury of dispensing it," Nikolai    retorted, ignoring the way his brother stared at him. "I wouldn't make    that kind of mistake. You might put me on the ground, but I'd sink a    knife in you on my way back up. You should remember that while you're    issuing threats. I don't fight fair. I fight to survive."

They stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment. Ivan settled back    in his chair, crossing his strong arms over his massive chest, and    Nikolai sat still and watchful, like the sentry he'd once been.

"Is this about your new woman?" Ivan asked. Nikolai didn't betray his    surprise by so much as a twitch of his eyelid, much less a reply. Ivan    sighed. "I've seen the papers."

"So I gather."

Ivan studied him for another moment. "She's not your usual type."

"By which you mean vapid and/or mercenary, I presume," Nikolai said    coldly. He almost laughed. "No, she's not. But you of all people should    know better than to believe the things you read."

Ivan's gaze on his became curiously intent.

"Tabloid games don't always lead where you think they will, brother. You know that."

It was Nikolai's turn to sigh. "And how is your favorite tabloid game    gone wrong?" he asked. "Your wife now, if I'm not mistaken. Or so I read    in the company newsletter."

"Miranda is fine," Ivan said shortly, and then looked uncomfortable,    that guilty look flashing through his dark eyes again. "It was a very    private ceremony. No one but the man who married us."

"I understand completely," Nikolai murmured smoothly. "It might have    been awkward to have to explain why your only living family member, the    acting CEO of your foundation, was not invited to a larger wedding. It    might have tarnished your image, which, of course, would cost us all    money. Can't have that."

"She's my family, Kolya." Ivan's voice was a hard rumble, his jaw set in    that belligerent way of his that meant he was ready to fight. Here  and   now.                       
       
           



       

And that really shouldn't have felt like one of his brother's trademark    punches, a sledgehammer to the side of the head. It shouldn't have    surprised him that Ivan considered that woman his family when he'd so    easily turned his back on his only actual blood relation. Or that he was    prepared to fight Nikolai-again-to defend her.

And yet he felt leveled. Laid out flat, no air in his lungs.

"Congratulations," he ground out. Dark and bitter. Painful. "I hope your    new family proves less disappointing than the original version you   were  so happy to discard."

Ivan wasn't the only one who could land a blow.

Nikolai watched him look away from the screen, and rub one of his big    hands over his hard face. He even heard the breath that Ivan took, then    blew out, and knew his brother was struggling to remain calm. That    should have felt like a victory.