“Come on, smile, Mishka. You look better when you do.”
“I told you not to call me that,” I grind out, watching our surroundings to avoid looking at him. “Stop picking fights when we need to survive together, asshole.”
“I’m not trying to fight, just stating facts…” He trails off, pointing his gun to my left.
I spin and fire at the same time he does.
My bullet tears through the head. Yulian’s finds the heart.
I narrow my eyes but stay silent as he scoops up the dead man’s rifle. I take it from him and sling it across my chest as we make our way up a steep incline. The hill punishes with every step, and I hear his breathing roughen, becoming ragged, uneven.
Gunfire echoes farther off now. The sharppop, pop, popis being swallowed by the flapping of crows and ravens scattering overhead.
I sweep the ridge one last time before grabbing his arm—the one without the gun—and hauling him in, my other arm circling his waist.
Although I feel his stare drilling holes into me, I refuse to meet it.
But I can still sense his grin anyway. “Aw, worried about me? I’m so touched, I might die.”
“Please do so you won’t slow me down.”
“You’re so cold.”
“Logical.”
“Inflexible.”
“Rational.”
“Boring.”
“Let’s agree to disagree.”
“I guess. At least you’re still holding me up.”
“So we can move faster.”
“I’m hurt. We could die any second now. Can’t you be nice to me?”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t know, maybe because I might be the last person you see before you die.” He slides an arm around my waist, his fingers squeezing the muscle a bit tootightfor comfort. “Heard you spend the afterlife with the person you die with.”
“Nonsense.”
“There must be a religion somewhere that believes that.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Then I’ll invent one.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Is that another word for perfect?”
I open my mouth to cuss him out, but the sweat streaming down his temple catches my eye—and the blood that’s still gushing, staining both him and me.
The bandage helps, but it’s not enough. His lips are paler, tinged a darker blue.
