His voice broke. I shuffled down the sofa to take his face in my hands. “You were eight, Zaal. A child.”

He tried to breathe, his chest rapidly rising and falling. Then he added, “When their bodies were piled up, they were like slaughtered cattle. When they had all been killed and left outside to rot in the hot sun, I saw her arm on the ground. Zoya was trapped under my grandmama, her little dead body was hiding from view. But her hand was still reaching out for me. She’d wanted me to save her, expected me to, right until the end.”

Tears tumbled down his cheeks, but his face was unchanged. He looked up at me and the devastated expression in his eyes destroyed me. “I let her down,” he whispered. “I couldn’t save her. And I have to live with that forever.”

I wrapped my arms around his chest, squeezing him tightly. Zaal held on tight. He always held on tight. Like he was the Earth, and I was his sun.

“He killed them all, Talia. Killed them like they were pigs. My family.”

“I know, Zaal,” I soothed, and just held him in my arms.

A few minutes later, with Zaal’s fingers wrapped in my hair, I felt his chest move. I looked up to see a whisper of a smile on his lips.

I melted.

I stared at him waiting for him to speak, when he murmured, “Sykhaara.”

“My sweetness,” I said, remembering the translation.

“She did not even understand what it meant.”

“Then why did she call you it?” I questioned.

“My grandmama called me and Anri it. We were her favorites. Her Georgian princes, she would say.”

It made me smile. Zaal noticed. He tipped his head to the side in question. “Like I was close to my babushka, you were close to yours.”

“How did she die?” he asked.

I inhaled and explained, “Heart attack. We found her one day in her chair, it was the anniversary of my dedushka’s death.” I shook my head, the pain of that day still strong. “My mama always said she died of a broken heart.”

Zaal was quiet as he contemplated my words, no doubt thinking about who was responsible for my dedushka’s death. With a sigh, Zaal said quietly, “I do not remember my papa well, Talia. I wear the name Kostava, though I find, apart from a few strong memories that seem set on repeat, I do not know the man at all.” Zaal patted his chest. “But know that I am not my papa. I am not vengeful toward your family.”

I held Zaal tighter. My affection for this man swelled to fill my every cell. He was perfect for me. In every single way.

“She would make me dance,” Zaal suddenly rasped, breaking the heavy silence, and turning the direction of the tense topic.

I lifted my head and asked, “Who?”

His eyes narrowed as he thought something over in his head and he answered, “My grandmama.” His eyes then widened. “She is how I know English. She had lived in America before she married my grandpapa.”

A smile broke on my face. “I always wondered how you knew English.”

“It was her. She said to lead the family we should know English. And Russian.”

My chin rested on Zaal’s packed stomach, and I asked, “She taught you to dance?”

I could see Zaal searching his mind for more memories, when he said, “Yes. She said we needed to be real gentlemen.” He exhaled like the memory took effort to remember. “We would dance to her favorite song, a song she heard in America.”

“What was it? The song?” I pushed eagerly.

He racked his brain and said, “I’ll Walk … I’ll Walk…” His lips pursed and his forehead creased as he pushed the memory. Then his beautiful green eyes lit up. “Alone,” he said. “‘I’ll Walk … Alone.’”

My breathing paused in disbelief.

“What?” Zaal asked, my face obviously showing my surprise.

“It was one of my babushka’s favorites. It’s by Dinah Shore.”

I lifted myself from Zaal’s arms and reached for my phone on the coffee table. I scrolled to my music and found the track. Zaal sat up in interest, and as I turned my head, I just had to pause.

He was so damn beautiful.

My heart raced as he sat there in black sweats and a white T-shirt. His olive-skinned muscles stood out against the paleness of the white and his long hair hung in front of his face. I loved his hair, I really did, but I loved his face more.

Zaal was staring at me. “What?” he asked.

“You’re so handsome,” I said quietly, and felt the blush build on my cheeks. “Takoy krasivyy.”

Zaal regarded me strangely, as if he had no idea why another person would ever regard someone as handsome. I sat with that thought for a second, and realized, he probably didn’t.

Getting to my feet, I walked toward him. Zaal sat up looking at me. His sitting down was almost the same height as me standing.

Reaching up to my hair, I pulled on the band keeping it in a ponytail. My long hair fell down over my shoulders and I held it in my hand.

Zaal frowned. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Can I do something?” I asked. Zaal regarded me warily. I leaned down and ran the back of my hand across his face. “I love your long hair, Zaal, but I want to see your face.”

The frown never moved, but when I raked my hands through his hair, his hands laid on my thighs, his eyes closed, and a low hum sounded in his chest.

I smiled at him and gathered his hair to a knot at the top of his skull. Finished, and wanting to survey my work, I stepped back, and all the air escaped my lungs.

Zaal was looking up at me, and I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. With his long black hair brushed off his face, his regally beautiful face—high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, full lips—staring up at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world, a stark reality hit home.

I’d more than fallen for Zaal. He now completely owned me. In every possible way. He was in my every cell, my every breath, my every heartbeat.

Zaal rose to his feet, and with his newly visible face, I stared up at him, struck mute and lost for words.

Zaal leaned down, and giving me exactly what I needed, met my lips with his. It was soft, gentle, and more meaningful than any rushed, passionate embrace could be; it told me everything I needed to know. I owned him, too.

Zaal pulled back, and sliding my hand down to his, I asked, “Would you dance with me?”

Zaal stilled. His perfectly framed eyebrows pulled down. “There is no music,” he rasped out.

Moving to the sofa, without breaking his hold, I pressed play on my phone, the device connecting to the house’s speakers.

In seconds the crackling sounds from the 1940s old recording drifted through the speakers. Zaal sucked in a quick gulp of breath, his eyes fluttering closed. I laid my hands on his broad chest, the beat of his heart hammering underneath. At my touch, Zaal opened his eyes, his gaze glossy.

Dinah Shore began to sing about her love, who was at war, and her promise that she would wait for him, that she would never love anyone else, never give up her heart. As those words filled up the room, Zaal reached for my hands, laying one on his shoulder, and clasped the other one on my hand.

Zaal began to lead, his feet moving slowly and unsurely at first, but as the song played on, he became more steady and self-assured.