“This way.”
He doesn’t walk beside me so much as slightly ahead. His presence cuts a clean path through the chaos of the ER. A nurse meets us at the doors, glancing between us. She’s clearly aware of who he is or at least what he represents. She waves us through without question.
The room is curtained off, dimmer than the hallway, and Devin is propped up in the bed. Her hair is matted, and a faint purple bruise is blooming along her cheekbone and jaw. Her wrist is wrapped, splinted.
She looks so small and scared.
Her eyes snap up when she sees me, and the sound she makes is a half laugh, half sob. It breaks something open in my chest.
“Al,” she breathes.
I’m at her side in two steps, careful of wires and rails as I lean in. She smells like sweat and the faint, familiar trace of her shampoo. She clutches at my t-shirt with her good hand, fingers curling tight as if she’s afraid to let me go.
“I thought—” she starts, then stops, swallowing hard.
“I know,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
We cling to each other awkwardly around hospital equipment, foreheads pressed together, both of us shaking now. She cries quietly into my shoulder; I cry into her hair. Neither of us says what we are both thinking. It could have been worse, and one day, it might be.
When I finally pull back, Kazimir is gone.
I didn’t hear him leave, and I didn’t feel it either.
A few days later I’m halfway down the curved staircase, distracted by my own thoughts, when a familiar laugh cuts through the quiet order of the first floor. It’s out of place here, it’s too loud and too alive for a house that tends to hum rather than speak. I stop short, one hand curling around the banister as I look down and see Devin standing near the entry hall. When I see her, she has one hip cocked and a garment bag slung over her shoulder. A neatly dressed woman gestures toward the east wing and explains something in a clipped, professional tone.
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Devin?” I say, disbelief spills into my voice before I can stop it.
She turns, her eyes widen, and then she’s grinning; full and bright. “Well, holy shit,” she says. “If it isn’t Savannah’s most kept woman.”
I’m down the rest of the stairs in seconds, grabbing her hands, apologizing when she pulls away the one still in a splint. The bruises must still be there, but Devin is an artist and makeup covers them. She looks tired, but better.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice pitching low even though I’m a little panicked. I glance at the other woman, already bristling. “Dev, you cannot?—”
The staff member smiles politely, stepping back. “I’ll give you a moment,” she says, as if this is perfectly normal. As if my best friend showing up in Kazimir Baranov’s house is not deeply alarming.
The moment she’s gone, Devin grabs my arm and drags me into a small side room off the hall, closing the door behind us with a soft click. Sunlight spills through tall windows, catchingdust motes in the air. I turn to her, heart pounding, and look her up-and-down.
She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a blouse. I’veneverseen her dressed like this, but then I see the badge clipped to the waist of her skirt.
“What the hell is going on,” I say. “You can’t work here. You can’t be involved with this.”
She blinks at me. Then her shoulders sag, tension bleeding out of her like air from a punctured tire. “Aly,” she says quietly. “I’m okay.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is.”
She leans back against a table, rubbing her hands together like she’s grounding herself. “Your terrifying fiancé offered me a job.”
My stomach twists. “Dev?—”
“Before you freak out,” she continues, cutting me off, “I said no at first. Like, immediately. It was like a reflex. Because Bratva, obviously. Then he told me how much he would pay me.”
I go still. “How much?” I ask her.
She bites her lip, as something giddy and disbelieving flashes across her face. “Three thousand five hundred dollars. A week.”
