He breathed a laugh, shook his head. “Who said love had to be shackles? I’m not trying to hold you anywhere, force you to do anything. This is a gift to you, Nadya. I give it freely. I demand nothing in return. You can love me or you can not. You can stay with me or you can go. Either way, I will love you. I will love the very spirit that may insist you run far and fast.” He caressed her fingers but didn’t grip them. Instead, he held his hand beside hers, palm up. “But I hope, of course. I hope you’ll stay. I hope you’ll accept my love—not as a prison trying to make you be something you don’t want to be. But as . . . wings. To help you reach whatever heights you strive for.”

She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t sure she believed him. Or trusted him enough to take that kind of gamble. Because whatever words he might say, the fact was still that love—committing to love, anyway—did put demands on a person. It demanded one think of the other, not just oneself. It demanded one think of the other above oneself. It demanded one work through the problems instead of choosing the easy way out and leaving when life got difficult.

And life would always get difficult. Every Russian knew that.

Did she dare take that kind of gamble on anyone?

She didn’t know. So, instead of answering with words, she eased closer, stretched up, kissed him. It would have to be enough for now that she wanted to be with him. That she wanted to live at his side when they got home. That was all she could offer.

Perhaps he read her mind. When finally she pulled away, his gaze went to the table, his hand reaching out a moment later. “Where was the passport?”

“Under a floorboard. Clearly he wanted no one to find it.”

Evgeni’s brows pinched together as he opened it. “The photograph is missing.”

She waved a hand. “That hardly matters, does it? You don’t need to use this as identification anymore.”

“No, not the one of me. The photo of the officers that the Prussian gave me. Zivon must have taken it out.” His eyes darkened. “Would he have given it to them, do you think? The British?”

“Does it matter?” Though she admitted it gave her a prick, and any joy she’d felt over the find started leaking out. “How will they know what it is? Or find the men with just one photograph to go on? As long as they don’t have the names, we are fine.”

“Right. The names are written on . . .” He flipped more pages. And then hissed out a curse and slapped the passport back to the table.

Her stomach dropped all the way to her feet. “What? What is it?”