9
SOPHIA
The hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the remnants of last night’s sleep.
I stayed up late, my mind racing with Elena’s cryptic warning about my father’s death, about secrets Mikhail doesn’t know.
But exhaustion eventually claimed me, and when I finally crawled into bed I was alone.
I don’t know when Mikhail came to bed. I didn’t hear him enter, didn’t feel the mattress dip under his weight.
But when I woke this morning, his arm was draped across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
For a moment, just a moment, I let myself pretend this was normal.
That we were a real couple waking up together.
Then reality crashed back in, and I slipped from his embrace and into the shower before he could wake.
I turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel, my hair dripping down my back.
The mirror is fogged, obscuring my reflection, and I’m grateful.
I don’t want to see the confusion in my own eyes, the way my body still hums from thoughts of his touch.
When I open the bathroom door, steam billowing out behind me, I freeze.
Mikhail sits on the corner of the bed, wearing a pair of black pants, but no shirt, putting all those glorious muscles on display for me.
His blonde hair is disheveled, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly.
But it’s not his state of undress that makes my breath catch.
It’s the injuries.
Deep cuts mark his arms and chest, some of the scabs still weeping.
A particularly nasty gash runs along his ribs, the edges ragged and angry.
Bruises bloom across his torso in shades of purple and blue.
“Oh my god.” The words escape before I can stop them. “What happened to you?”
His green eyes meet mine, and I see exhaustion there. Pain. And something that looks like fear.
I must be reading the expression wrong, though, because as far as I know, Mikhail isn’t afraid of anything.
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.” I move toward him without thinking, my hand reaching out to touch the cut on his ribs. He flinches, and I pull back. “You need a doctor.”
“I’ve had worse.” His voice is flat, emotionless, but I can see the tension in his jaw. The way he’s holding himself too still, like movement will hurt.
“When did this happen?” I clutch the towel tighter around myself, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. “Whathappened?”
When he only looks at me without answering, I scowl my displeasure. “Sit down,” I order, surprised by the firmness in my own voice. “Let me look at those cuts.”
“Sophia—”
