A loud knock cracks against the door.
I tense, and the small measure of calm I’ve gathered dissipates in the warm air.
“It’s just the doctor,” Mikhail whispers, tugging the blanket up to my chin.
My breath loosens.
The newcomer is a short man with graying wisps of sideburns, and he strolls right to me, immediately reaching for my buried wrist.
If I could flinch back, I would. The thought makes me want to cry again.
“Hands off.” The finality of Mikhail’s voice whips through the room, so different from the soft tone he just used with me, but I internally sigh at the halt of contact.
“Pakhan, I have to check her vitals. I’m going to need to touch her to do so.” The doctor’s voice comes out in a nervous stutter, but he obeys Mikhail, stepping back from me with his hands raised. A little bead of sweat builds on his receding brow.
Pakhan?
“You will touch her as little as possible to ensure she is healthy, and then you will give her something to help flush out the drugs. Any deviation, and I’ll have you out before you so much as beg for forgiveness. Understand?”
As exhilarating as it is to witness the effect of Mikhail’s tone, I just know I’d hate to be on the other side of the command. The doctor visibly withers like a weed in a blaze, his gaze dropping low in an obvious show of submission.
“Understood, Pakhan.” He says, once again addressing Mikhail with that strange word.I wonder what it means.“I…I’ll need to check her pulse to make sure the drugs didn’t slow her heart rate.”
Mikhail looms over me, a protective shadow at my side, and raises his brows in a question. After a few seconds, I realize he’s waiting for an answer.
I can be brave.
I blink once for yes.
His fingers work efficiently to brush back that blanket and lift my palm, offering the doctor the inside of my wrist. His features bleed into a tight grimace. He watches the doc the entire time his two fingers rest against my pulse, and I study the exchange aptly.
The awkward exam continues much the same, Mikhail’s unwavering focus tracing the doctor’s every movement until he finally steps back. The death glare he uses on my behalf slowly starts to transition from scary to oddly comforting. I guess I’ve never really had someone in my corner before when shit hits the fan. Even though it’s probablyjust because of the life debt he thinks he owes me, I’m relieved to have his watchful gaze at my back, protecting me while I’m useless and frightened.
Mikhail and the man start discussing something in low tones, but my small burst of energy from before is fading fast, and I can feel my consciousness morphing back into the kaleidoscope from the bar. Pinks, bright oranges, and deep blues blend into every object around me.
A warm breath of air against my ear has me opening my eyes. I didn’t even realize I had closed them.
Mikhail’s face dances in my blurred vision. “You can rest, Menace. He’s just gonna give you an IV to flush out the drugs. You’ll be just fine.”
My lids start folding over in exhaustion once more, and the low rumble of his voice is like a heated blanket and a warm glass of milk. Before I slip under, I strain the joints of my left arm, the same fingers I’ve been trying to move for the last hour, and I’m shocked when the limb starts to obey. Stretching my palm through the waves of resistance, I manage to grasp onto my shadow’s arm with the very tips of my fingers.
His eyes widen, and he covers my hand with his own. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says slowly, enunciating the sentiment. Then he shocks me by linking his pinky finger around my smaller one, only to lean into my ear. “Promise.”
The word is the last thing I hear.
Cassandra
Iwake with a jolt.
Burning nausea crawls up my throat, and the cool sweat that soaked through my dress from the night before sends a wave of shivers down my spine. I crack my eyes against the offending sunshine piercing through the drapes and heave the large duvet off my legs, pleased that my limbs are once again obeying orders.
I don’t have long to celebrate, though, because my stomach cramps with revolt, and I have no choice but to stumble from the bed and sprint towards the cracked door I hope leads to a bathroom.
I spot the toilet and race over, throwing open the lid just in time for mouthfuls of vomit to surge up my throat.
My fingers grip the cold porcelain, one hand shooting up to pull the handle and flush the revolting contents down the drain.
I sit back on my heels, the nausea subsiding to a soft twist.
