“I know that,” I mumble, “I do. I’m just resting my eyes, I’ll be up…” I doze off for a minute and wake to her song again. Forcing my crusty eyes open, I see a beautiful blonde woman, early fifties maybe with vivid violet eyes, like mine. This is definitely Ethan’s mother.
“There you are,” she says kindly. I can hear a trace of her Russian accent but the way she speaks is more like American English. “Ihave some ice chips for you, dear. Doctor MacTavish was quite adamant about getting you to take some.”
“Hey,” I croak, “is everyone okay?”
Her smile is so warm. “Yes, all the men and women from our clan, at any rate. I’m Morana Ivanova MacTavish, Beathan’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you…” I trail off in an endless, weak little cough. “I’m Sloan Masters. Your son kidnapped me from Italy last week.”
“Hmmm, I heard about that,” she says, smoothing the comforter over my shoulders. “I apologize for cleaning you up while you were asleep. I thought waking up smeared with my son’s blood might be a bit much.”
“You’re very kind,” I wheeze, “there’s been a lot of blood lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She feeds me an ice chip. “I must say for someone outside the business, you’re handling it quite well.”
“Not entirely outside the business,” I admit. “My scumbag stepfather turned out to be an arms dealer, so that sucked.”
Morana laughs, “I know something about fathers who completely suck. I’m very relieved to see you doing so well, though I doubt it feels that way to you.”
Even this bit of conversation and the six ice chips I’ve kept down is exhausting. “Um, what was the lullaby you were singing when I woke up?”
“The Cossack Lullaby,” she says. “I used to sing it to Beathan whenever he was sick, which was not often, the boy was almost relentlessly healthy. Would you like to hear it in English?”
“Yes, please.” I drift off again, comforted by her presence.
“Sleep, my beautiful good child,
Bayushki bayu*,
Quietly the moon is looking
Into your cradle.
I will tell you fairy tales
And sing you little songs,
But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed,
Bayushki bayu.”
When my eyes open again it’s Ethan sleeping in the chair. His head is tilted back against the wingback chair and I get a good look at him.
He’s got a nasty scrape on his jaw, and his shirt’s unbuttoned over the thick bandage on his arm and another one on his waist. He still looks really good with those massively broad shoulders and the elaborate tattoos peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt. His beard is thicker, like he hasn’t been trimming it and there are dark circles under his eyes. I’m struck with a momentary and highly unacceptable bolt of sympathy for him. Whatever I’ve been through this week, he’s had it twice as rough.
It’s all his fault,my mean voice pipes up,he’s the one who kidnapped me!
That’s true, though I’m beginning to question if I could have evaded those other psychopaths who’d been chasing us on the mountain. I shudder slightly.
“We’ll share her with you… he doesn’t care what condition she’s in…”
Oh, the irony of this turning out to be the safest place for me. Momentarily, of course. The thought of getting out of here and escaping Scotland for yet another country just makes me… tired. I’m so fucking tired.
As I move slightly to soothe my sore chest, Ethan’s eyes open and he’s instantly awake. The shift is startling; he sweeps the room for any threats, his left hand on his gun in its holster. Then, the intensity of his gaze is on me.
“Are you in pain, darlin’?”
I am, and I hate it but I know I’ve existed in some kind of opiate-influenced twilight for the last week and I need my wits about me, even if the thought of a soothing something seems very appealing right now.
