My head cocked to the side to listen harder. The voice was speaking in Russian, but it held an accent, an accent that sounded familiar to me. I couldn’t place the person, but instinct and a lightness in my heart prompted me to walk to the doorway.
I peered down at my hand, only to see it shaking. Tears pricked in my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, unsure why I was overcome with such emotion. The voices grew louder, many people contributing to the conversation. On a deep inhale, I edged through the door. This room was massive, dripping with expensive decoration. I padded silently along the floor, until the room turned to feature a living area. I stopped dead when I saw four people sitting on couches—the source of the conversation. All seemed young. One couch faced a huge roaring fireplace; a large blond man with his arm around a brown-haired woman sat on its plush cushions. My pulse quickened, but no recognition came.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move when my eyes fell upon the couple with their backs to me. A blond woman rested her head on an olive-skinned man’s arm. His large back was covered in a white T-shirt the material of which was severely tested by his muscles. His black hair was tied back in a messy bun at the top of his head. For some reason my lungs ceased to function as I stared at him.
My body was rooted to the spot. I feared I would never be able to move. Perhaps sensing me, the blond woman leaning on the dark man turned her head. Brown eyes collided with mine. She froze. I stared at her and she stared at me. Something inside of me cooled as her lips parted. I couldn’t remember why, but something inside told me I was not meant to like her. My mind was filled with a thick fog. I was struggling to organize my thoughts, to put anything into the correct place.
The man beside her turned to the blonde. The blonde, seeing him move, laid her hand on his arm. The man stared at her, his sharply defined profile coming into view. But he didn’t look back toward me. The blond woman rubbed at his arm and his back stiffened. His head fell forward and his hands ran through his hair. I watched his every movement; the burning in my chest increased, nerves racked my body, as I waited for him to look my way.
I blew out a shaky breath, but that was cut off when the man suddenly launched to his feet. My eyes widened at his sheer height and massive build. His hands opened and closed at his sides. Then, as if in slow motion, he turned. I watched with bated breath as he finally faced me.
His eyes were down, long black lashes pressed to his cheek. On another breath, his eyes fluttered open, his bright green gaze immediately slamming into mine.
The reaction was instant. The recognition was immediate, penetrating through the fog. Images flashed before my eyes at the sight of that powerful green gaze; it flicked by, like a show reel of my youth—my little legs running in the field through high grass, two boys chasing me. A green-eyed boy scooping me into his arms, me laughing as I kissed him on the cheek and pointed at three moles on the side of his left cheek. Two boys, identical looks but for their different-colored eyes. Two boys lying by the river, laughing and smiling with me tucked safely by their side. A green-eyed boy kissing me on my cheek good night and telling me that he loved me …
As I gasped, my trembling hand flew to my mouth. Tears built in my eyes and began pouring down my cheeks. My hand fell away at the sight of this man, once my best friend in the entire world, my protector, looking so fierce and strong, no longer a young boy.
I breathed, fighting to gain my voice, and whispered, “Sykhaara…”
The stern expression on his face fell into one of returned love. The aching in my legs was instantly forgotten as I ran forward to throw myself into his embrace.
My arms wrapped around his thick neck, and I sobbed when I felt familiar arms holding me around my waist. The world around us fell away as I sobbed and sobbed, tucking my face into his neck. Zaal’s face tucked into my neck, and I could feel tears tracking down the skin on my back.
“Zoya,” his deep voice murmured. Squeezing me tighter, he said, “I thought you’d died. I thought I’d lost you, too.”
We stayed like that for what could have been hours, but eventually I pulled back and with blurred swollen eyes I looked up to his face. Lifting my shaking hand, I brought my finger to his left cheek and ran the pad over his moles. Smiling, I whispered, “One, two, three…”
The pain showed in Zaal’s face and his eyes closed as he tried to breathe. Understanding he was finding this as difficult as I was to cope with, I got to my tiptoes and pulled the band from the top of his hair. I smiled widely as his long black hair came tumbling down.
I stepped back as his hair fell over his shoulders to land against his chest. I took the strands in my fingers and met his amused face. “You still have the long hair?” I said in awe, too overcome that my sykhaara was standing before me after all this time.
“Like the Georgian warriors of old,” he replied.
Pain sliced through my heart as he repeated Grandmama’s words. With a shaking voice, I offered a compliment: “Grandmama would be happy to see you like this.”
The tears fell silently down Zaal’s cheeks and he made no move to wipe them away. His eyes were staring at every part of me; then I saw his nostrils flare and a choked sound came from his throat when he stared at my shoulders.
I turned away, staring into the large flames of the fire when I felt his finger run over my bullet scar. “I watched you die,” he said quietly, devastation in his tone. “Those bastards held me back as you called my name, begging me to save you. Your eyes were on mine as they shot you, and I couldn’t save you.”
I laid my hand over his on my shoulder and faced him again. “You and Anri were boys. What could you have done against all those men?”
My eyes widened at the sudden mention of Anri. I quickly scanned the room. I saw the woman and man from the couch watching me, smiling, and I saw the blond woman sitting behind Zaal on the couch. Her face was wet with streams of tears, too.
My attention stayed on her for a lot longer than the others, but she didn’t say anything to me, barely reacted to my attention. I couldn’t remember if I knew her. I couldn’t place her face in my mind.
When I looked back to Zaal, I asked, “Where’s Anri? Where’s my brother?” My stomach roiled, as I was eager to see him again soon. Zaal’s expression fell, as did my cracking heart.
Stumbling back, I shook my head and whispered, “No.…” My head shook again and again, and my hand flew to my mouth. “Don’t tell me,” I said through my thick throat. “Please, tell me he’s alive.”
Zaal turned away and I saw his shoulders shaking. When he faced me again, I knew. The desperately sad expression on his face told me everything I needed to know. My legs too weak to take the news, I collapsed to the floor.
Cries racked my body as it felt like someone was twisting my heart and lungs in their tight grip. Strong arms suddenly wrapped around me, a large body pulling me to his chest. I fell into his hold, and his familiar scent took me back to when we were children. Minutes and minutes passed by. I cried until I was sure I couldn’t cry any more.
Obviously hearing I had calmed down, Zaal pressed a kiss on my head and said, “I have missed you, Zoya. I still have you. We still have each other.”
I gripped him tightly and whispered, “I missed you too, sykhaara.”
I took courage from his hold. Eventually I pulled back, my cheeks flushed, feeling the eyes of strangers watching me.
When I looked at Zaal’s face, I said, “You look just like Papa, sykhaara. You’ve grown to be handsome, just like him.”
Zaal’s lip hooked into a proud smirk. When I touched his long hair, I then touched mine. “We have the same hair now,” I remarked.
A gruff laugh burst from Zaal’s lips. I laughed, too. He nodded his head, “Your hair is longer than mine. At last.”
I shook my head, remembering my annoyance as a child that my brothers had longer hair than I. I quickly sobered as I saw Zaal’s scarred and tattooed arms. “You look so different, sykhaara, yet exactly the same, if such a thing is possible.”
Zaal’s head dropped, and he admitted, “I’m not the brother you remember, Zoya.” I lifted his chin, my stomach turning when I examined his beaten face.