Chapter 13
Stella
I shift to my side and grimace as a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder.
“Don’t move,” a soft voice says in the dark.
However, I don’t listen to the warning and keep trying to pull myself up from the bed, only to hiss out in pain.
“You are a stubborn woman, Stella Romano. I said don’t move,” Kirill’s voice rings out louder now as he approaches the bed and sits down beside me, brushing the wet hair from my temple.
That’s when it hits me. Kirill is here, in my room, sitting on my bed.
Wait…
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I realize this isn’t my room at all. And this definitely isn’t my bed.
“Where the hell am I?” I grumble, trying to get up again.
“Stay the fuck still, Stella, or God help me, I’ll tie you to this bed and make it so.”
Normally, I’d have a witty comeback for a threat like that, but there’s a fearful edge on his voice that shuts me up.
“You didn’t answer my question, Kill. Where am I?”
He leans his head back against the headboard and exhales heavily. “You don’t remember,” he says, almost relieved that whatever happened has slipped from my memory.
The fact that he remembers what I can’t leaves a cold weight in my chest. I reach for the scattered pieces of my memory, and without warning, they slam back into place.
Rushing out of Sacred Heart after Marcello went ballistic and killed a priest, right in front of Frankie.
All of us going home so my parents could launch into major damage-control mode.
Me offering Frankie a ride back to the orphanage when it became painfully clear she was too overwhelmed after learning her boyfriend and his entire family were tied to the Chicago syndicate.
Frankie and I being run off the road, gunfire tearing through the air, and the all-too-familiar sound of Russian being shouted nearby.
Yes. It all comes back to me at once. And I’m fucking livid.
“Kirill,” I grit out through my teeth, fighting to keep my rage in check. “Did your men fucking shoot me?” When he doesn’t answer, I use my good arm to slap his chest. “You asshole!”
I hit him again, and again, until pain flares through my side, my head spins, and nausea twists my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anxiously.
“Aside from you trying to kill me,” I groan, bile rising up my throat. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Kirill’s up in an instant, grabs a nearby wastebasket, and helps me lean forward, holding my hair back while I throw up.
I’m surprised by how little actually comes out. I’m even more surprised when Kirill goes to the bathroom, returns with a wet washcloth, and gently wipes the corners of my mouth.
Then he helps me lie back on the bed, easing me down and tucking another pillow behind my head with slow, deliberate care, as if I were something fragile he’s afraid to break.
Once I’m settled, he sits beside me, arm slung over the headboard, not close enough to press me to his shoulder, but near enough to twine his fingers through the strands of my hair.
“Do you feel better? Do you need me to get you anything?”
“What I need are answers, Kirill, and you’re fucking evading them.”
