Page 55 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

My hands won’t stay still, so I lock them together in my lap.

He notices.

“Look at me,” he says.

I turn, and the movement pulls at my jaw. I wince before I can stop it.

“Where are you hurt?”

“My shoulder,” I say, swallowing. “My ribs. My jaw. They tried to push me into another car and I fought it.”

His face tightens and holds there, and I see it settle in his mouth and around his eyes, but his voice stays even. “Anything bleeding?”

“No.”

“Head?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, and my voice comes out smaller than I want, but I keep it steady.

He watches me another second, then turns forward. “You need a doctor.”

My chest closes. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Yes.”

I look away, pressing my shoulder back into the seat. There’s no arguing with Maksim, but I can't see a doctor. Not now.

The lane narrows between high fences and old brick walls, and the houses sit set back behind gates with curtains pulled. A small shop stands closed with its shutter down, and the pavement in front of it stays empty as we pass.

The SUV slows past a row of squat houses and turns in behind a green metal gate. I stay in the back seat with Maksim’s coat wrapped around me, watching through the window as the man from the front passenger seat gets out first. He walks the fence line with his phone in one hand, checks the side yard, the rear gate, and the next stretch of road. A curtain moves in the house across the lane, then settles. A dog barks once, and somewhere farther down, a woman drags a trash bin to the curb without looking our way.

The man finishes his sweep at the far corner where the trees thicken behind the property, takes one final look through the branches, then signals all clear and circles back toward the SUV. The driver comes out and opens Maksim’s door. He gets out and walks toward the house.

An older Russian woman steps onto the porch with thick wool socks in one hand and a pair of worn felt boots in the other. She wears a dark wool dress, a gray cardigan buttoned wrong at the top, and her white hair is pinned back in a loose knot. Her face breaks into a toothless smile the second she sees Maksim.

“Maksim,” she says, and the name comes out rough with affection.

“Nanny,” he says, and his voice changes enough to make me look at him. For one second, he looks less ready to break someone’s neck.

She comes down the porch steps faster than I expect and shoves the socks against his chest. “Put these on her before you let her stand on that gravel.”

Maksim takes them without arguing. “Irina.”

“Don’t use that voice with me,” she says, then points at me. “She’s hurt, and she’s cold. Move.”

Maksim crouches at the open door before I can decide whether to fight the help. His fingers close around my ankle with care, and he slides the thick socks over my feet first, then works the felt boots on one at a time. They’re old, warm, and a little big, and something about wearing another woman’s emergency footwear makes my throat tighten.

Maksim stands and offers his hand again. “Now you can get down.”

I take his hand because falling face-first in borrowed boots would hand him the argument forever.

“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice controlled as his fingers settle over the coat.

“I didn’t ask you to,” I mutter.

“No,” he says, guiding me away from the SUV. “You made that very clear.”

We cross the yard slowly. I keep one hand at my ribs and the other fisted in his coat while the boots drag over the gravel.