She's lying near the entrance, her beautiful red dress fanned out around her, hiding the blood darkening its fabric. Her eyes are open wide in surprise, but they’re not looking at anything in particular.
I recognize the familiar waxen look of her face. It’s the same one that I saw on Luca’s in the casket.
If she'd been a good girl and stayed away from Slava tonight, she might still be alive.
I file that away to hate myself for later.
We burst down the service corridor doors—the same doors where I adjusted Slava's tie while Vanessa was still alive—and as we emerge into the early summer air to a back alley, the sudden quiet is disorienting. The gunfire inside the Bellamy is muffled now.
And with the sound of traffic all around us, I can almost fool myself into thinking that I imagined all of this, that we’re just stepping out to talk about a change to the schedule, and that when the night is over, Vanessa Ashford-Price will be warm and alive in Slava’s bed instead of being zipped up in a coroner’s bag.
"Your shoulder," I hear my voice like it’s a thousand miles away.
Slava looks down and that’s when he sees the red staining his shirt. Wet crimson spreads along the white fabric, and he scowls.
"It’s nothing." He's not even wincing.
"It’s not nothing. Sit down."
The command comes out sharper than I intended. His eyebrows rise but he ultimately does listen to me as he leans against the wall and allows me to examine the damage.
"Tie," I say, already reaching for it.
He undoes his tie with a single fluid motion, and hands me the charcoal gray tie I wrapped around his neck earlier. Wordlessly, I start wrapping it around his shoulder. My hands are steady, but my heart is not.
“I suppose I should thank you for bringing that spare tie,” he says. “And for saving my life.”
“Can’t exactly have you writing my paycheck if you’re dead.” I give the tie a hard yank.
The bleeding slows.
His hand comes up to cover mine as I wrap it around his shoulder one more time. Heat rushes up along my arm, and I know it’s not because his blood is staining my hand. Slowly, his fingers curl around mine, and I swear I can feel his pulse jumping against my palm.
I saved the life of the bastard who murdered my brother.
And he saved mine.
The realization is bitter on my tongue, and no amount of justification that his life ismineto ruin can erase that fact.
Then he turns his head to look at me, and for one horrible moment, I imagine leaning forward to meet his lips.
But his eyes aren't on me.
They're on my necklace.
The top buttons of my blouse must’ve come undone during our escape, and the necklace is now in full view. The seven-pointed star now feels cold against my skin in the night air. Miraculously, the necklace has remained free of blood.
Slava’s grip tightens, and something moves through his expression. A shiver rushes through me again when I realize that it’s the same expression he had when he looked at me earlier.
When I jutted my chin out at him defiantly.
There’s no mistaking the recognition passing through his eyes this time. And now, in the dim light of the alley, the air between us grows heavy and pregnant with an unspoken tension.
His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks. "Where did you get that?"
"Family heirloom," I lie carefully.
I know he doesn’t believe me.
