We scramble out. Viktor is mumbling now, barely conscious. He’s sweating, skin clammy and burning. Two men fill the doorway of the house, guns trained on us.
“Help!” I’m screaming now. My hands skid uselessly over Viktor’s slick skin. “He needs a doctor!”
The female guard reaches me and yanks me away from him. Viktor jerks upright, reaching for me, pulling me into a hard embrace. His heart is racing too fast—a frantic drumming against my own. His lips move against my shirt.
I bend closer. “Not… leaving you.” I don't know why I’m clinging to a man who has brought nothing but blood into my life. All I know is that if he lets go, I’ll stop existing. I’ve traded my safety for his shadow and I’m never going back.
“I’m not leaving you either.” I don't know when he became the only thing that matters. I don't know why I’m clinging to a man who has brought nothing but blood and terror into my life. All I know is that if he lets go, I’ll stop existing.
“Get him inside the house.”
I don't move. I stay angled toward Viktor, my arm braced across his chest. His fingers curl weakly into my shirt. I don't care who has a gun. I'm not letting go.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
JONAH
Absolute chaos follows.Fingers peel his shirt away. Someone checks his breathing while another presses a palm to his throat. Men move around us, Russian words cutting the air.
I stay close until one of them angles his body between me and the bed. He shuts me out. The mattress is a flurry of hands and equipment. I'm an outsider again. A shadow in a room full of soldiers.
The doctor, a woman with red hair tucked into a bun, checks the monitor. She mutters about the stimulant overdose. Her flashlight cuts through the dim light, catching the way Viktor’s chest hitches in bursts. Every rasping breath he takes feels like a hook in my own lungs.
I try to push past, but a guard jabs me in the back and yanks me away. He steers me into a stiff-backed armchair. I’m forced to face a man in a black T-shirt. Blond hair falls over pale eyes. His fingers clip the end of a cigarette. He barks orders, but his gaze never leaves mine. He looks like he’s already decided where to bury me.
He’s around Viktor’s age. Built for trouble. He’s close to Viktor; it’s in the way he watches the bed. His palms shake as helights the cigarette and tosses a silver lighter onto the table. He stills his hands before anyone can see.
“If you’re going to smoke, go outside.” The doctor doesn't look up.
He ignores her. He exhales a stream of smoke and studies me. “So. Whose part are you playing?”
“Nikolai.” The doctor snaps her bag shut. “This isn't the time for an interrogation. We should be lucky his heart didn't seize in that basement.” She fixes her gaze on me. “If it wasn't for you. How did you know what to do for him?”
“I’m a nurse.” I hate the stammer. I hate that I’m sitting here shaking while he’s lying there. I want the version of him that was awake. The one who called me mine. The guards filter out, but the distance between us doesn't shrink. He’s there, and I’m here. I want him conscious. I want to be back in the room with the piano, tangled in his bed. Just us.
My eyes burn. I blink hard. I won't cry in front of these people.
“A nurse.” Nikolai takes another drag.
“Yes. I was assigned to take care of him. It’s complicated.”
“Then fucking explain it.”
“I don't know where to start.”
“At the beginning.”
“My father called me and took me to the Morozovs.” The words feel like lead. “He had a debt. He couldn't pay it, so he… he sold me.”
Nikolai’s brows draw together. “He sold you? To who? Sergei?”
“No. To the lady. The one who runs the house.”
“Babushka.” He hums. “So it's true.”
He watches in silence as the doctor puts on her coat.
