If I were just…there for him like he’s always been there for me.
He stirs and I sit up straighter as his eyes blink open, unfocused, lost. His left blue eye is not as swollen now, but the bruise around it is dark blue, almost black.
“Yulian?” I stroke his hair gently. “Can you hear me?”
He blinks a few times and lies motionless for a few seconds, as if he’s not sure what’s going on. Is the concussion that bad?—
He reaches a hand toward me, but the moment he touches my cheek, his good eye widens, and he drops his hand back down.
I don’t like it.
He usually won’t stop touching me, so why does he seem like he was caught making a mistake?
He rises up all of a sudden and then groans loudly, probably hurting his ribs, and I grab his shoulders and help him back down, gently but firmly. “Stay still, you have broken ribs and other injuries.”
I reach out to the nightstand and give him a glass of water, figuring he’s parched. He just keeps watching me as if I’m a ghost, so I hold the glass to his lips. “You have to drink some water.”
He does so mechanically, taking all the water I’m giving him until the glass is empty.
A droplet of it trickles down the corner of his lip, and I wipe it, my thumb lingering on his skin longer than needed.
Fuck, I missed him. Missed touching him. Being with him.
I can’t believe I almost lost him.
Yulian pulls away, forcing me to drop my hand, and my chest aches. That’s the first time he’s ever recoiled from my touch.
And it hurts more than I’d like to admit.
Pretending he didn’t just cut me in two, I sit beside him on the edge of the bed, holding the empty glass tight as I speak coolly. “How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?” he asks, his voice craggy and huskier than usual as he stares out the window.
It’s nighttime, so only a few garden lights are visible through the large baroque-style windows—definitely the work of Uncle Tosha’s sophisticated taste, as Uncle Maks is just along for the ride.
“Russia,” I say.
“Russia?”
“Ust-Koksa, to be precise. We’re staying with my uncles at their countryside estate.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you bring me to Russia?”
“Because it’s safer,” I say matter-of-factly.
“I need to go back.” He starts to move, groaning slightly.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’re better, Yulian.” I push him back firmly but without force. “You can probably barely breathe, let alone move.”
He pants, proving my point, a grimace painting his handsome features as beads of sweat appear at his temples. “You don’t understand. I have to get back to Alya. With me gone, he’ll hurt her…”
“She’s with Cyrus,” I say, still holding him down so he doesn’t do anything stupid. “Cyrus took her with him before I went to rescue you so that we could avoid Yaroslav using her against you. She’s safe, and you can call her and Cyrus to make sure. Maybe later, once you’ve recovered, so you don’t sound so out of breath and worry her.”
His shoulders relax, but his breathing is still too choppy, probably because of the pain. So I pass him one ofhis prescribed painkillers and help him with another glass of water.
