We spend the rest of the day at the museum. We grab a bite to eat at the cafeteria, then go right back to diving into the exhibitions. I never thought so many hours spent between glass cases could be interesting, but somehow, Petyr manages to make it fun. I could listen to him for days.
“So?” I quip as we slide back into the car. “Where to next? Shall we raid a restaurant? Pillage the coffee cart?”
Petyr’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t laugh like he did earlier. There’s something different in his eyes now, a dimness that wasn’t there moments ago.
Just as I’m wondering how to breach the subject, he breaks the silence. “I want to introduce you to someone.”
The way he says it makes me sit up straighter. I’m used to hearing him sound all kinds of sour-mooded. Angry? Sure. Annoyed? Daily. But this isn’t anything like that. This is…
Sadness.The realization hits all at once.He’s sad about something.
I reconsider the look on his face. Suddenly, he looks that much more human.
“Okay,” I answer slowly. “Someone like… your mom? Or is this a ‘meet the guys’ sort of thing? Because, fair warning, I’m not great at icebreakers. Or sports. Oh, God, they won’t ask me about sports, will they?”
“You’ll see,” he says simply.
I fall quiet, staring out the window as the city passes by in a blur of headlights and neon. My reflection looks back at me, tight-lipped, unsettled. Seeing Petyr like this rattles me more than I want to admit.
This isn’t part of the deal. Being invested in his well-being, worrying about him… But I am all of those things. I shouldn’t care, but God help me, I think I do. Against my better judgment, against every self-preservation instinct I own, Icare.
That’s not good.
The car ride stretches in heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the engine. I sneak glances at Petyr. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw set, hands firm on the steering wheel. He doesn’t look at me. I wonder what it says about me that I want him to.
I take this perfect opportunity to remind myself of the rules.Don’t get attached. Don’t confuse this arrangement with anything else. Don’t imagine what it would be like if things were different.
Because he won’t.
Because they aren’t.
But the harder I push these thoughts down, the more insistent they become.
When we pull up, I glance at the building—and my stomach knots.
The hospital.
Why are we here? I’m getting a sinking feeling in my gut, the kind that usually means I’m better off sprinting in the opposite direction. Part of me must already know what’s waiting on the other side of those doors. That I won’t like it.
But Petyr is looking at me expectantly, so I swallow the lump and follow him inside.
The fluorescent lights make everything look a thousand times grimmer. A crime scene, or the first five minutes of a post-apocalyptic zombie movie.
Petyr reaches the front desk and signs us in. The nurse only looks up once, sees it’s him, and doesn’t say anything. Just gives him a respectful, familiar bow of the head and lets him carry on.
We walk down the sterile hallway. I can hear the faint buzzing of machines behind closed doors. My throat feels dry, like it’s coated in chalk. I hate hospitals. Hate the smell of bleach that covers up the decay.
But Petyr keeps moving, so I do, too.
Finally, he stops in front of a room. Two black-suited bodyguards are posted outside. They both bow their heads, muttering, “Pakhan,” in greeting.
He opens the door.
We step inside.
And then I see him.
A man lies in the bed, pale as the sheets. Tubes and wires keep him tethered to life. His chest rises and falls only because the machines make it rise and fall. He doesn’t look alive, not in any way. I almost don’t recognize him.
