“I’ve been with him all night. I’m going right back to him after I make sure you’re okay.”
“Is he really going to be fine?”
“He is.” I hold her face tighter. “Anya, your father is the strongest person I have ever met. The doctor said he’ll be just fine.”
A tiny, wet hiccup escapes that might be the ghost of a laugh. Or it might just be a hiccup. Either way, I’ll take it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and now my own voice betrays me, the tears I’ve been holding since the warehouse, since the car, since the moment I watched him collapse, finally breaking through. They spill down my cheeks, and I don’t wipe them away.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry you were here alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you. I’m sorry this happened.”
“It’s not your fault, Ellie.”
The words stop me. My composure disintegrates completely.
I pull her against me, and I cry. Anya holds on, her arms tight around my neck, her face pressed into my shoulder.
When the tears dry up, I ease back and wipe her cheeks with my thumbs. She lets me, her eyes still red-rimmed but steadier now, the storm having passed through and left something calmer in its wake.
“Are you staying with us, Ellie?” she asks.
“Yes,” I promise. “I’m staying, sweetheart.”
She searches my face and nods. The deal accepted. She settles back against her pillows.
“Will you tell Papa I drew him a picture?”
“I will tell him first thing.”
I sit on the edge of her bed and watch her face relax. The warmth that settles in my chest is something I’ve never felt before.
I smooth her hair back from her forehead. She doesn’t stir. I press my lips to her temple, breathing in the strawberry shampoo and the warmth of her skin, and I make a silent vow to the quiet room that I will be here tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that, for as long as she’ll have me.
Then I stand, and I return to Rolan.
The third day dawns, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes.
The doctor assures me this is within the expected range, that the body, when subjected to the degree of trauma Rolan sustained, occasionally elects to remain in the restorative darkness longer than anticipated.
I have my head resting on the mattress beside his hip. My hands are threaded through his.
The room is quiet.
I begin speaking.
“Anya drew a dog yesterday,” I say.
The monitor beeps. Steady. Unchanged.
“Alexei has been insufferable.”
Talking to him might be silly, but it releases the mountain of pressure in my chest. That, and talking to him brings me back to our time at the estate. Times when we were safe. Together. Happy.
I adjust my position, pressing my cheek more firmly against the mattress. “He keeps insisting I go back to the house to eat and change clothes,” I say with a shaky exhale. “But he’s been helpful. More than helpful. He brought Anya here yesterday and let her sit in the hallway and draw for an hour, even though I could tell it made the security team uncomfortable. When she fell asleep, he carried her back to the car.”
I study his hand in mine. The IV line tracing the vein across his knuckles.
“She misses you.” My voice wavers on the second word, and I pause to steady it, pressing my lips together until the tremor passes. “She asks about you every morning. The same question.When is Papa waking up?”
