“Viktor!”
Jonah's on the floor beside me before I fully register falling. My knees smash into the rug. My palms slide. His are the only solid thing left in the world.
The sedative is a thick, black tide, but the heat of his skin anchors me to the floor. I survived the basement because Sergei thinks he's my weakness, but he doesn't realize the nurse has become the only reason I haven't let the dark take me yet. When the fuck did that happen? When did I let a stranger become my only anchor?
“What did you do?” he shouts. “What the hell did you do to him?”
One of the guards snorts. “He's alive. That's more than he deserves.”
The door closes. The lock turns.
Jonah's thumb presses under my jaw, trying to lift my face. “Come on. Stay with me.”
“I'm fine.” It sounds like someone else.
“You're not fine. You're bleeding everywhere. You're ice cold.” He rips a sheet, presses it to my ribs. His palms shake. “Sorry. I have to. It's okay. I've got you.”
The sedative drags heavier. Jonah leans close. His warmth is the only thing keeping the fog from turning into night.
“You're okay,” he whispers. “You're with me. You're okay.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
JONAH
Viktor collapsesbefore we even reach the bed. The sound of his body hitting the mattress makes my stomach drop. One second he’s moving under his own weight, and the next his knees give out and he pitches into me. I catch him badly. We hit the mattress together, his weight knocking the air out of my lungs. My ribs ache where his shoulder slammed into me, but I don't have time to feel the bruise.
He ends up facedown, fingers clawing into the sheet. His breath comes in short, broken pulls that scrape at his throat. The chain at his waist clanks against the frame, a cold, heavy sound that makes my skin crawl.
“Viktor.”
There’s no answer. His eyes stay shut, lashes dark against his skin. His mouth is slack. He looks like someone I’ve never seen before—someone breakable. Dragging him fully onto the bed takes everything I have. He’s dead weight, all hard muscle and heat that tugs at every tendon in my arms. I heave him upward, my muscles burning, until he’s centered on the mattress. He smells like copper and something synthetic, like a hospital wing gone wrong.
“Viktor. Come on.”
His head lolls when I turn his face toward me. His eyes flutter, staring at me absently. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the green I'm used to. A thin line of dried blood seals the corner of his mouth. My stomach twists. It feels like someone hooked their fingers into my gut and yanked. The clinical part of my brain is counting his respirations, marking the shallow rise and fall of his chest, while the rest of me is just screaming.
I snatch the basin from the nightstand and wring out a cloth. I wipe him down in slow strokes. His throat, the line of his jaw, the dried streaks at his temple. There are new bruises along his ribs where they held him still. His skin flinches under the cloth, a reflex that flares and fades before he goes slack again.
“Say something.” I lean close so the words land at his ear. “Please.”
His breath hitches. I cling to that like it's proof he's still in there. I slide onto the bed beside him and pull his head into my lap. My fingers comb through his hair, pushing damp black strands back from his forehead. He feels wrong. Too hot where the fever runs, too cold in the palms. He was a predator this morning. Now he's a ghost.
“Viktor. It's over. I'm here. Just breathe.”
A sharp sound snaps through the room. Footsteps. Coming straight for us. Heavy boots on the hardwood, and it is not the careful stride of the usual guards. These people are in a hurry.
My grip on him tightens until my fingers ache. The lock clicks. My body reacts before my mind does. I’m on my feet as the handle turns, my heart hammering hard enough to make me dizzy.
I grab the lamp from the table and wrench it free. The cord snaps tight in my hand. I lift it with both hands and plant myself in front of the bed. My back is to Viktor. My feet are set. I don't know when I decided to die for him, but I'm standing hereanyway. The weight of the base is clumsy in my hands, a pathetic defense against whatever is behind that door, but it's all I have.
The door slams inward. Two men and a woman, all in black. They surge toward the bed.
“Bozhe.” The one in front has a sharp, clipped voice. His gaze finds the bed. “It's him.”
“Touch him and I swing.” The words splinter on my tongue. “He can't stand. He can barely breathe. You're not dragging him down to that basement again. If you hurt him, I swear to God I'll kill you.”
