Do. Not. Say. It.
RECOMMENDED TRACK: Lana Del Rey – Once Upon A Dream
My feet walked. My cheeks burned. My mind spiraled.
‘National treasure?’ Why did you say that? Now he knows he has pretty eyes. Okay, he obviously knows they’re pretty. He probably gets it all the time—they’re very blue. Why does his jacket smell like…tea?
Maybe he didn’t notice—no, he definitely noticed—and now he knows you think he’s hot. Now he’s walking you home—now he has expectations—how do you say no? You have to say no.
“The queen recognizes quality,” was all he said. I chanced a look at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge how much trouble I’d gotten myself into.
Misha was a lot taller than me. I could barely even see his face while trying to hide my peeking, but even then I caught his beaming smile.
Damn.
I don’t know what I expected from the infamous Sigma Halloween rager—though I know Chloe was hoping I’d hook up with someone—but whatever I’d thought might happen, it wasn’t this. Chloe had abandoned me. I’d run into a classmate I had forgotten was a Sig. I’d met a guy who had actually read the Oz books who was obviously a total snob.
And I had somehow attracted the attention of Misha Sokolov.
I’d known who he was from the first sound of his accent. Everyone knew about Sigma Theta Rho’s resident “god of party,” even homebody bookworms like myself. I knew he was supposed to be good-looking, but I hadn’t known how good-looking until he was already towering over me, one arm against the wall above me.
And now he was walking me home and I’d told him his eyes were pretty. Idiot, I chastised myself.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the party?” I asked, glancing back at the house as we got further from it. “I could just Uber home.”
Misha tsked. “Uber? You want, what, the back of creepy man’s Honda? No,” he said, dismissing the thought with a wave. “Do not worry. The party will survive without me. Mostly. Monty is there. He is a good party boy. He will keep chaos going for me while our chapter president weeps over the cleaning bill.”
On a normal night, I wouldn’t have found that funny. Those sorts of bacchanals weren’t my thing, and I didn’t understand the way my peers glorified them. But when Misha was the one poking fun? I looked down at my feet, biting back a giggle. “Poor president.”
“Oh, yes,” he agreed, but in a sarcastic tone. “Poor president. But poor Misha too, walking in the cold without his jacket for a queen who will not look at him.” He bent down and tilted his head up at me, suddenly in my field of vision instead of the periphery, and I tamped down the startled sound that threatened to jump out of my mouth.
I turned my head the other way like a petulant child, trying to get a grip on myself. “I can give it back if you’re cold.”
But he straightened and laughed. “No, I kid. This weather?” he said, waving his hand dismissively at the cool air around us. “This is a lovely May day in Moscow.”
“Really?” I asked, curious in spite of myself. I hadn’t gotten to travel much, certainly not to Russia, but its history loomed large in the arts. “I’d love to see that someday.”
“Mm,” Misha grunted noncommittally. “Piter—Saint Petersburg—is better, I think, for you. For a queen of stories.” His cheeky grin turned rueful. “Saint Petersburg is history, philosophy, art. She’s a beautiful melancholy. Moscow? She is power, politics. She’s sometimes a very ugly anger.”
It wasn’t the kind of response I expected from a so-called party god. As good-looking as Misha was, that wasn’t the reason I’d stuck around the backyard as long as I had. At first, it was because Elliott and Adrian had distracted me. But then Misha defended me and my silly taste in movies. And then told me a folk tale about a brilliant queen. Now he was telling me truths about his homeland.
“I imagine it’s especially difficult now,” I ventured.
He grimaced. “You are not wrong. The mood in Moscow is grim. There used to be a sort of wall between the people and the politics, and there is fear the wall will be torn down.”
I took in what he said, almost forgetting to be embarrassed as I hugged his jacket tighter around me. “I’d still love to see them both someday.” We passed by a little herd of guys looking for a party. They hooted in our general direction and Misha slipped ahead of me and to my other side, blocking their view without comment.
Another thing I might have rolled my eyes at from someone else. He already thinks he owns you, came one voice. No, he’s making you feel safe, came another. Misha interrupted them both.
“So, you know a little of my home now,” he said. “Tell me, what sort of castle does the queen live in?”
That made me laugh, a sharp bark. “Tiny. It’s tiny. Otherwise…what you’d expect, probably,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “Books. Candles. Clutter. Nothing exciting.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask to come up and see it. Saying no is hard, especially when a tiny part of you wants to say yes.
“Books, yes, I would very much expect that,” he agreed, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. I tried not to look at the shirtless torso above them. He works out. I wonder if he plays a sport? I succeeded in distracting myself after a moment, but only because he leaned closer to me to ask his next mischievous question. “Tell me, what do you read when you are alone? What is the book you hide under your pillow like dirty secret?” He waggled his eyebrows.
It wasn’t the first time a guy had asked something along those lines. “I don’t believe in guilty pleasures,” I said primly, trotting out an argument I’ve made many times. “Life is too short to be ashamed of what you read. Or listen to, or watch.” Soccer? No, he seems more upper-body focused. Damnit, Emma, stop thinking about his muscles.
But he keeps them on such a nice display. I suppressed a sigh.
“Ha,” Misha chuckled, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “You tell me you have no books you put in drawers so people do not see? No, I do not believe this.”
“Well…I do have a lot of books on my phone,” I conceded. “I don’t hide them, there’s just no way to display them.”
Misha whistled like he was impressed. “She avoids question like a politician. Like a real queen,” he said, shaking his finger at me. “Diplomacy is good. But you can trust me. Sigma’s honor. So tell me, what books do you read on your phone? Romance with brooding knights and worthy maidens? Fantasies with dragons and cursed princes? Maybe gruesome murders and traumatized detectives?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Those are very telling guesses.”
“And that is very good dodging,” he retorted with a smirk. “You do not give me secrets for free. This is fair,” he said, looking up at the sky thoughtfully. “Okay. We will trade. I will tell you…” He twitched his mouth from one side to the other in thought. “I will tell you Misha Sokolov’s biggest, most secret shame. You tell my Sig brothers, I am dead. Forever.”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets to cross himself dramatically, clapped his hands together and looked up as if in prayer. He was clearly enjoying himself, and even though the thought of poor Petrushka performing stayed with me—and that brief flash of dread on his face when I had talked about it—I couldn’t help wanting to smile along with him now.
Most people left after I said too much, unless I left first. That’s what I’d tried, but here Misha was walking me home instead, playing at penitence.
“My most secret shame is…” He leaned in to me and cupped his hand over his mouth to stage-whisper. “Cooking videos. When I am awake stupid late and cannot sleep, I watch videos of Russian babushki baking treats. Very soothing.” He spread his hands outward like an offering. “There. Now you tell me about your most secret books.”
He’s lying.
I looked at him carefully. There was something in the way those blue eyes of his sparkled in the streetlight—not so much with mischief as with delight—that set me at ease in spite of myself.
No, he’s not. He’s saying something real and making it a joke.
“First off, I don’t believe for one second that your ‘most secret shame’ is cooking videos, even if your fraternity brothers would rib you for it,” I countered. But, well…he had offered a trade. You didn’t agree to it. But are you really going to leave him hanging? He gave me a prompting look, and…I don’t know. I couldn’t suppress the urge to offer him something real in return. Besides, I’d just talked big about ‘no guilty pleasures,’ right? “But yes, sure. Some of my books are romance. Some of it’s just porn, even,” I said casually, before I could think better of it.
I looked away immediately but heard his step falter as he gasped theatrically and my cheeks flushed. Again. Are you actually flirting?
No, just being honest.
Yeah, right.
I may not believe in guilty pleasures but apparently I believed in regular old guilt just fine. Was I teasing him? I wasn’t going to invite him up, no matter how fun and good-looking he was. No matter how unexpectedly safe he felt.
When he found his voice, it was with a sort of hooting laugh, one that definitely wasn’t the performative chuckle he’d mostly used up to that point. “You say this to me like it’s a weather report?” He cackled. I thought he might be blushing, too, but we were between streetlights. “Oh, yes, the forecast is rain today, sun tomorrow, and Queen Emma reads porn.”
I groaned. “A lot of women do. It shouldn’t be surprising.” I hate the stupid dance people do of pretending only men like sex.
“Of course. But few women say it like nothing,” Misha argued, but that big, sunny grin was back. “What kind?”
My eyes went wide. “Oh no. No way. It’s no big deal to say I read porn when it should be a default assumption. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to—to—to talk about my kinks,” I blurted. Yes. Good. Boundaries! “Especially when you tried to pawn off granny cooking videos as your ‘big secret.’” What? Why would you leave an opening like that?!
“You are ruthless,” Misha groaned, throwing his hands up as if in desperation. “Absolutely ruthless. But…” He put his hands on his hip and rubbed his chin. “You are right. Cooking videos are not equal trade for bedroom secrets.” He turned around to face me and started walking backwards. “How about this. Truth for truth. I tell you, you decide if it is enough.” He stopped and folded his arms decisively. I paused next to him, watching several expressions cross his face in rapid succession before landing on something like resignation. “There is a piano. In the basement of the old music building. Steinway. Awful. Out of tune. Some keys stick,” he said, shrugging. “I play there. Tuesday nights, sometimes. Between security rounds.”
“You play piano?” I asked. I don’t know why it surprised me, actually. I glanced down at his hands, large, with long, elegant fingers. Stop it.
“Yes,” he said. “Rachmaninoff. Tchaikovsky. I hated lessons as a child, but now?” He shook his head, shoving his hands back into his pockets as we continued down the street again. “It’s the only break Petrushka gets sometimes,” he said. I don’t think he meant for his voice to soften. It wasn’t part of the role he kept slipping back into.
Double damn, I thought.
And then, like a light switch, he turned the mischief back on. “There. Is a little bit of Misha’s soul,” he said, clasping his hands together to beg. “Does this secret buy me even one hint?” He pleaded. “Or does the little queen find the poor Russian boy unworthy?”
A breeze floated by and I rubbed my arms underneath his leather jacket. It was warm, huge, laced with his scent. Tea, definitely. Black tea. “You’re baring your artistic soul, and what you want in exchange is my taste in smut?” I muttered, continuing to walk down the street. He fell back into place beside me. “Okay, fine,” I said, ignoring the alarm bells going off in my head. “Consider it a Halloween miracle.”
Do! Not! Say! It!
I ignored myself. Chloe would have been so proud.
“These days, I like to read…I don’t know what to call it. Daddy energy. But not choking, brat-taming stuff,” I said, trying to put it into words. “More like…being praised, but more. Being spoiled. Taken care of, I guess? That sort of thing,” I tugged his jacket up higher like I could duck down and hide inside it like a turtle.
This time, Misha actually tripped, which was honestly kind of gratifying.
“Oh,” I added, looking over my shoulder at him, unable to stop my lips from quirking up at his stunned expression. “And since you mentioned him—I love Tchaikovsky, too.”
I turned my head and kept walking like I could outrun the shamelessness of the subject change.
After a moment, I heard his footsteps behind me. “Bozhe moy,” he said quietly as he caught up. “She is trying to kill me,” he said, louder now. “You drop this bomb about—about praise kink, then switch to Tchaikovsky? This is like a psychological war crime,” he complained.
“You asked,” I heard myself say, definitely like some kind of actual adult whose cheeks didn’t feel like they were about to catch fire.
“Yes,” he said, nodding absently. “Yes, I did. So. Tchaikovsky, mm?” I was surprised he took my pivot instead of digging in on the erotica talk, given his outward persona screamed “fuckboy” from the rooftops. “This tells on you a little, I think. Tchaikovsky music is big, romantic. Especially the ballets. So, which Tchaikovsky do you love?” He looked at me with a new kind of curiosity in his eyes, despite his teasing tone. “Sad love of Swan Lake? Or did you grow up on sweet Nutcracker and sugar plums?”
I paused in the lamplight in front of my apartment building. “I like his concertos best. But of the ballets, I’m a Sleeping Beauty apologist,” I answered, smiling at his skeptical expression. “I know, it’s bloated. But that big beautiful waltz? Tchaikovsky knew how to write music that yearns.” I could already hear it playing in my head, sweet and sweeping. “Walt Disney was sharp, turning a birthday party dance into a falling-in-love song.”
“Huh,” Misha replied. “To be honest? I usually ignore the ballets. But that is an interesting case,” he said, bouncing his leg as he looked at the street absently. “People complain about Nutcracker’s sugar, but that princess, she saves her prince. And Swan Lake, Odette is steady. Constant. But you,” he turned back to me with a shrewd look. “You choose the princess who sleeps. Who waits for her protector. Her kingdom sleeps too, would rather dream with her than wake without. That ballet? It’s devotion.”
I’d had that thought before. Recognized my own pattern. Analyzed it to death.
And Misha, who presented himself as a shot of vodka personified, had caught it immediately.
I couldn’t even respond to him, feeling my face get red all over again. “Right. Well,” I said after a second, gesturing at the apartment complex behind me awkwardly. “This is me.”
Misha looked up at the building, grey and dull, for a long moment. Then, he shook his head and looked back at me. “I am not going to ask to be invited up,” he said. “If I do, you’ll think that’s why I walked you home. And it is not.” His words came slowly, reluctantly, almost like he was as surprised as I was. He tugged his hands from his pockets and held one out to me. “Give me your phone. I’ll give you my number, and if you go to the Conservatory Hall basement on Tuesday, you can text me and I’ll let you in,” he said. “I will play for you. On the terrible Steinway. Tchaikovsky, if you want.”
I stared up at him, wondering who this “god of party” people talked about was. Because the man standing with me wasn’t him. This man was just…Misha. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, piano-playing, cooking-video-watching Misha.
My phone was hanging off a loop around my wrist, forgotten. I unlocked it and held it out for him. “I’d like that,” I said before I could change my mind.
He took it, punched in the number, and handed it back. “Tuesday, 9pm,” he said. “And text me when you’re in your apartment so I know there was no Halloween serial killer waiting for you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I laughed and glanced at his info on the screen. “Hey, you put your name in wrong,” I chided. “Not Petrushka. Misha.” I fixed it, then hugged the phone to my chest. “I’ll see you then.”
“See you then,” he repeated. He took a step back as I made my way up the stairs and into the building.
It wasn’t until I was in my little apartment that I noticed the spiraling voices that usually bleated at me were silent.
And that I still had his jacket over my shoulders.
I pulled up my phone and texted him two characters, because I didn’t trust myself to type more just then: “🧚🏠”
He was gone when I crossed my room to look out the window, and I felt bad that he was walking home at night without his jacket.
But at least I knew when I could return it.
Tuesday.
Bonus Content:
Ozma Moodboard
Author’s Note
B-Side Track: Beabadoobee – Apple Cider
Do you have anxiety spirals? Not necessarily the kind that end in panic attacks but the kind that give you cold sweats and keep you up at night for hours? So does Emma.
FUN FACT:
Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty takes a significant chunk of its score from Tchaikovsky’s ballet, not just Once Upon A Dream! And the ballet is bloated. As written it’s three hours long…without counting the intermissions, which make the full time at the theater four hours. And it was better-received at the time than Swan Lake! It did pick up some niche popularity in the rest of Europe in the ‘20s, but Disney’s film brought it into greater public awareness, a fact Walt was eager to take credit for (in an introduction to the movie, he claimed the score had been “sleeping” like Aurora herself).
Modern productions are almost always of an abridged version that brings the runtime down closer to two hours. In 1987 there was an hour-long “ice ballet” version (not Disney-associated) that my parents taped on TV, which was my introduction to the production beyond Disney’s film.
Quick housekeeping: this is the end of the first content drop for The Russian Risk, but don’t worry, there will be more very soon 💜 Ultimately we’ll move into a two-chapters-per-week cadence.
Back to Misha and Emma. Now that you’ve gotten a taste of Emma’s POV, what do you think of her?