Alina takes a step toward me and then stops herself. “Sit down,” she says. “Pacing around isn’t going to help your men, is it?”
I could refuse her. I don’t. I lower my ass into the chair behind the desk and let my body accept the gravity it’s been fighting since this morning. The relief is a small thing. I pretend it’s bigger for her.
Alina leaves the room and returns with the small kit from my room, setting it on the desk with a click. “Take your shirt off,” she orders.
“You’ll have to buy me dinner first,” I reply.
The joke is a reflex. It’s also a mistake, because the color that hits her cheeks makes my thoughts go places that won’t help anyone. I slowly begin to undo the buttons, then slip off my shirt, baring skin and bloody gauze.
Alina peels gently, eyes on the work, not on me. “It’s clean,” she murmurs. “But the edges look angry.”
“So am I,” I mutter. I’m angry at myself, for letting her see a weakness my enemies would pay to exploit.
Gavriil used to tease me when we were kids whenever I lost my temper. He would tell me that showing any emotion, even rage, made me look weak because emotions lead to mistakes, and mistakes lead to death. His words usually led to me punching him in his gut, then getting my ass beat to a pulp.Cooler heads prevail, he would say with every hit, a direct quotefrom our father who literally would throw us outside in the freezing cold for hours to punish us for fighting.
“I haven’t seen you get angry without a good reason for it,” Alina remarks, as if giving me permission to hold on to that particular weakness. She gently swabs the wound, smooth and sure, her concentration shutting out everything but the circle of skin she can fix. This close, I smell the part of her that isn’t perfume—warm skin and breath that catches when the alcohol stings and I pretend it doesn’t. My body records the details of her beautiful face because the real thing is so much better than the still images on my phone.
“Gavriil will come back soon,” I warn her, giving her a heads-up because I know my brother better than anyone.
“If you’re resting, I’ll tell him to get lost again,” Alina replies, her hands tensing a little.
“He doesn’t take being told no,” I say.
“Usually, younger siblings are like that,” Alina tells me. “Why are you the one who has to make compromises for him?”
“Gavriil learned from our father that compromises are the same thing as losses,” I murmur as my mind travels backward to the past. To all the heavy advice that our father placed on our shoulders when we were too young.
Curiosity flickers in her eyes, and I know that she wants to ask more, but she continues on with her task.
“Well, maybe more men should deny him so that he gets used to it,” she responds. She tapes the new dressing down. Her thumb presses the corner flat.
“I’m sure you surprised him when you confronted him,” I say. “He won’t easily forget that either.”
She glances up at my face. “Does that help us?”
Us. She keeps sayinguslike it’s a fact.
“It buys us a little more time, but not much,” I tell her honestly. “My brother likes puzzles he didn’t make himself. He’llprobably want to put you together, piece by piece, even more so than he did before.”
My brother likes to turn people into puzzles so he can rip them apart after.
Alina’s pretty lips flatten. “I don’t want to be his puzzle to solve.”
“Too late,” I say. “You turned yourself into one when you told him no. He’s just biding his time now. Gavriil will refuse to accept the fact that you’re mine, regardless of what traditions or customs I invoke.”
“Do you two typically share women?” she asks out of the blue.
The question is so unexpected from her that I nearly choke on my tongue. “No.”
“Then this… ‘mine’ business, is that you just saying it to make a claim on me so he can’t?”
I let the question stand there until it wants to pace nervously. “I said you’re mine because it’s true,” I answer. “It’s the first truth I’ve spoken without strategy in years. And in my world, that means something. Even if you refuse to wear my necklace.”
Alina goes quiet, looking at my face like there’s an answer written somewhere she just hasn’t read yet. Then she stands up and closes the kit, the click louder this time while she clears her throat, and I expect she’s about to change the subject again. “Your men, how long until they’re at the location?”
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Thirty if the bridge is backed up.”
She chews her lip and then catches herself and stops. The small discipline of it makes the back of my neck heat. “And then?”
