If she had died tonight, Dominik would’ve made good on his threat and killed me.
Not that I would’ve blamed him.
And I hate that I care this much about her wellbeing because it’s making me miserable and distracted. I don’t like all these fucking feelings, but I can’t make them go away. They’re my punishment for this mess.
I walk over to the bedside, gazing down at the IV needle piercing the top of her hand. Without thought, I take her hand and gently brush my thumb over her knuckles, wondering if she can feel my touch.
If she will ever forgive me.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
Too many things matter that shouldn’t, and the growing pile is crushing me under its weight, almost too much to bear.
For a few moments, all I can do is let those feelings wash over me without a fight.
And hope they don’t drown me before she wakes up.
14
Alina
Wakingup feels less like opening my eyes and more like being dragged back into my body.
I don’t feel relieved to be alive. I just feel…trapped.
My head is too heavy to lift, my thoughts lagging seconds behind my breathing.
All that I can process is how weak but also comfortable I am on a soft bed, cuddled up against something firm and warm.
Comfort feels wrong after how miserable I was, and how close I came to disappearing.
I open my eyes, squinting against the brightness filling the room until my vision adjusts. Blurry shapes slowly sharpen into objects that I can identify. A cream-colored wall. An expensive dresser. A pair of masculine arms that look vaguely familiar holding me tight.
Dom?
My eyes close again as memories finally breach my foggy mind, filling in the gaps about where I am and whose chest I’m lying on right now.
Gavriil?
I’m in his bed, his arms?
I immediately stiffen as I hear him draw in a deep breath.
“Why…” The rest of the words remain stuck in my throat.
The events of last night slowly return to me. I think I remember hearing a woman, Yelena’s voice, speaking in Russian, along with Gavriil’s. I felt like I was light enough to float away.
I shift my left hand that’s resting on Gavriil’s abdomen, his hard, bare, and hairy stomach, pausing when I see an IV needle nestled in my skin. Oh, so things must have beenreallybad last night.
I think I almost died last night, but he refused to let me go.
The thought scares me more than Gavriil ever has.
“How are you feeling?” His deep, accent-heavy voice hits my heart like a jolt of electricity.
I should get away from him, but the thought of even lifting my head off his chest is downright impossible at the moment.
My body choosing rest over hatred feels like failure.
