Aria
Winterlightisunforgiving.It exposes the gray in Galina's skin and the tremor in her hands that she tries so hard to hide. I shift her weight forward, keeping my hands professional as I settle her against the fresh pillow.
It’s a performance. My methodical approach is the lie I tell every day—that Galina is just a patient, that I haven't fallen in love with her grit and humor. I treat her like a job so I don't have to admit how much she reminds me of my grandmother.
"Better?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Always better when you're here, dushka." Her accent thickens the warm endearment. She pats my hand with fingers that tremble now, bones too close to the surface. "You work too hard for an old woman."
I fight a smile at her shameless fishing. Galina might be declining, but she hasn’t fallen down yet, and we both know it.
"You're right," I say, smoothing the blanket across her lap. "I’ll tell your grandsons to ship you off to one of those dusty homeswhere they feed you once a day and leave the TV on all night for company. Then I can finally go sit on a beach and drink Mai Tais."
Galina’s raspy laugh crinkles the corners of her eyes. She knows the truth: she isn't going anywhere, and neither am I.
We settle into the Aslanov estate’s comfortable silence. Neither of us puts much stock in small talk. She doesn’t have the time for it and I’ve been too busy hustling to scrape out a living to learn the skill. The last eight months have been my longest reprieve. The first chance I’ve had to fucking breathe and not worry about a creak outside my apartment door or the nervous rattle of my twenty-year-old car’s engine.
Even the converted servant's room puts my old apartment to shame. But more than the luxury of polished furniture and staff servants is the pleasure of caring for a woman who treats me like blood. A woman who cares for me without question or cruel judgements. In my twenty- two years, these eight months are the first time I’ve ever felt safe. Safety comes at a price.
Igor Aslanov.
A sudden shift in pressure, a primordial warning on the back of my neck, straightens my spine and tells me the oldest of her beloved grandsons has arrived. I’ve trained myself not to scurry from the room at his entrances. No, I don’t give the cat any reason to chase. I greet him with a polite, distant smile, steel my nerves, and prepare to leave. Like anyone who’s had to live on the streets, I know how to skirt danger. How to dance near flames without being consumed.
He’s braced himself against the doorframe, suit jacket gone, white shirtsleeves rolled to reveal forearms that look like they could strangle a man or cradle a child with equal competence. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw carved from something sharp and unforgiving.
He doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
"Aria."
His voice is low, vibrating through the floorboards. Vibrating through…me.
"Mr. Aslanov." I turn back to Galina, fussing with the edge of her blanket just to give my hands something to do. The professional mask is back in place, but it feels thinner than usual.
"Igor," Galina corrects, her face lighting up in a way that makes my chest ache. "Come. Sit."
He moves into the room with that deliberate stalk of his. He pulls a chair close to the bed, and reaches for his grandmother's hand. I swallow a lump in my throat—his large, tattooed hand engulfs her fragile, paper-thin bones. His tenderness unnerves me as much as his darkness. It’s the demon I wrestle with. The one that whispers and suggests things I can’t have and shouldn’t want.
"How are you feeling today,Babushka?" His thumb strokes her knuckles.
"I am well. Aria takes good care of me." Galina's gaze flicks between us, sharp despite the illness eating her from the inside. "She is a gift, this one."
"Yes." Igor’s eyes cut to me. Heavy. Assessing. "She is."
Heat crawls up my neck, hot and sudden. I turn away, busying myself with the pill organizer on the nightstand, counting out doses I memorized weeks ago.Just a job,I remind myself.He is just the employer.
"I need to speak with you both," Galina says.
The tone of her voice stops my hands mid-air. It’s not the voice of a sick grandmother; it’s the voice of a matriarch.
"Sit, Aria. Please."
I sink into the armchair opposite Igor. The fabric of my scrubs suddenly feels too thin, leaving me exposed under the intensity of two pairs of dark, demanding eyes.
Galina looks at her grandson, her expression softening into something tragic. "I am dying,moy dorogoy. We do not need to pretend otherwise."
"Babushka—"
"No." She lifts a hand, silencing him instantly. "I have one wish before I go. One thing I need to see to know you will be safe."
