“I’ll just throw it up.”
“Then you’ll throw it up in the park like a normal person instead of in this depression den.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m clean, dressed, and standing in the elevator with Jasper while he critiques my hair.
“When did you last brush this?”
“This morning.”
“With what? A rake?”
I glare at him. He grins back, unrepentant.
The elevator doors open. Dima’s in the lobby. Of course he is. He’s always somewhere, watching.
“We’re going for a walk,” Jasper announces.
Dima looks at me. Then at Jasper. “Where?”
“The park. Fresh air. Vitamin D. Revolutionary concepts, I know.”
“I’ll come.”
“You will not.” Jasper steps between us. “She needs normal human interaction. Not a bodyguard hovering three feet away.”
“She needs protection.”
“She needs to breathe without seven layers of security suffocating her.” Jasper crosses his arms. “We’ll be in public. Daylight. Lots of witnesses. Even a psychotic Russian mobster wouldn’t try something in front of a farmer’s market.”
Dima’s jaw tightens. “Lev and I will follow. At a distance.”
“How far a distance?”
“Far enough that you won’t notice.”
“I’m going to notice. You’re six-foot-five and built like a refrigerator.”
Dima almost smiles. Almost. “Then pretend you don’t.”
Jasper sighs. “Fine. But if you scare any children, I’m reporting you to… I don’t know, whoever manages mobsters.”
We leave before Dima can respond.
The park is fifteen minutes away. Trees, grass, that weird urban peace that comes from being surrounded by nature in the middle of a city.
I breathe. Actually breathe. For the first time in two days.
“Better?” Jasper asks.
“A little.”
“Good. Now talk to me about something that isn’t Anton.”
“I don’t know what else to talk about.”
“Literally anything. The weather. Your favorite color. That weird mole on your shoulder blade.”
“I don’t have a mole—”
