Page 222 of Sexting His Assistant

I want to find him before she has to call again.

I want many things tonight that I cannot produce with force alone, which is always when I become most dangerous.

At the gate, the guards open for us before the car fully stops. Nina opens her eyes as we enter the long drive, and I see her take in the stone pillars, the ironwork, the cameras, the lamps along the trees, the quiet scale of the house waiting at the end.

She’s been here before in blood and panic.

I hate that her first memory of my home is my mother’s face paling at the sight of her covered in my blood.

This time, I want it to feel different.

Not perfect. Nothing is perfect right now.

But safe.

When we reach the entrance, I get out and come around to her door. She gives me a look when I offer my hand, but she takes it anyway. Her fingers are warmer than they were at the hospital, and her grip is steadier, though she leans a little more of her weight on me than she would ever admit.

My mother is waiting in the front hall.

Yelena Kazan stands beneath the chandelier in a pale gray dress, silver-blonde hair pinned back, her expression calm but her eyes soft in a way I know will undo Nina more than pity would.

My mother says, “Nina, welcome home.”

Nina freezes beside me.

Home.

I close my eyes briefly.

My mother doesn’t miss it.

Nina says, “Thank you, Mrs. Kazan.”

My mother comes forward and takes both of Nina’s hands carefully, as if she has already been told about the bruising. “Yelena, please. You are recovering, and this house is quiet. If Luka becomes unbearable, you come to me.”

Nina glances at me. “That might happen quickly.”

My mother says, “I assumed.”

I say, “Both of you are enjoying this too much.”

My mother says, “You are very easy to enjoy at your expense.”

Nina’s mouth softens, and for a moment I think my mother has done more for her in thirty seconds than I managed in two days of sitting by a hospital bed.

Then Nina sways slightly.

I catch her before she can pretend she did not.

My mother’s face changes at once. “Enough talking. She needs her room.”

Her room. It’s already become that.

I lead Nina up the main staircase slowly, though she complains halfway that she is not made of glass. My mother follows at a distance with Meredith’s efficiency and none of Meredith’s restraint, giving instructions to a housekeeper about tea, soup, fresh towels, low lighting, and no unnecessary noise in the east wing.

Nina’s room is the blue guest room overlooking the back gardens.

My mother chose it because it gets morning light but not too much, because it is far enough from the main staircase to be quiet, and because it has an attached sitting room where I can pretend I’m not standing guard outside her door.