Page 61 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“I do.”

“Then go enjoy that.”

His jaw works once, and he pulls the chair out. “You’re pale, you’re sore, and you’re running on tea and spite.”

“At least one of those is working.”

“Not enough.”

I push my chair back, and the sound cuts across the room.

“Elena.”

I keep walking, and I don’t turn when he says my name again, because if I stop, I might go back and sit down and do what he says, and I’m not ready to give him that.

I shut the door in my room and sit on the edge of the bed, and my hands don’t stay still, so I press them into the mattress and focus on something solid.

The house moves in pieces I can track, a step here, a door there, his voice once, then nothing. I lie back, close my eyes, and get nowhere with it.

Every time I drift, I see him on the road, his face hard, his hands moving, his body cutting through men before they could get set. Then it changes, and I feel him close again, one hand at my waist, holding me up because it mattered that I stayed on my feet.

I turn onto my side and pull the blanket up, then push it away again because it doesn’t help, and I sit up with my heart beating hard against my ribs.

Upstairs, a board gives once, and I know where it is without checking.

His room. I stand, step into the hall, and move slowly, one hand on the wall, because the floor gives in places and I don’t want to draw the guard’s attention. I climb the stairs. His door is closed.

I stop in front of it and stay there, listening to nothing I can use. Then I lift my hand and touch the handle. He’s inside, head down, reading something. He looks up when he sees me enter and his brows knit in a question. “Elena?”

18

MAKSIM

She slips through my door without knocking, damp hair framing her face, my coat hanging open over a faded gray sweater, leggings, and the thick socks Irina pulled onto her feet earlier.

I’m seated at the narrow desk beneath the skylight, reviewing Abramov’s report by lamplight, pen balanced between my fingers. The moment I see her eyes, I slide the sheet into the drawer and turn the key. I don’t need paper between us.

“Elena?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. She’s supposed to be in the spare room, resting and obeying doctor’s orders. Instead she’s here, cheeks flushed, jaw set hard like she fought herself every step.

“Can’t sleep.” She hugs my coat tighter though the attic is warm from the iron radiator. The overhead beam cuts a diagonal across her, a shadow slicing over her mouth. She takes two careful steps inside. I catch the tremor in her ribs before she says another word.

I stand, chair legs scraping the floorboards, and close the distance in two strides. “You’re still hurting.”

She lifts her chin. “You told me to rest and threatened me with more tea. Brutal tactics.”

Sarcasm wraps around pain and fear, her usual armor. I slide a palm over her shoulder, thumb skimming the swollen bruise hidden beneath the coat. She winces. I drop my hand to her waist, feel the sharp inhale. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m here,” she says. “Because when I’m alone, I hear engines. When I’m with you, at least I know where the danger is.”

I stare at her, silent. Outside, the wind knocks a branch against the attic roof, a muted thud that ricochets through the beams. She flinches, barely, but I feel it. I sweep the coat off her shoulders and hang it on the back of my chair.

The sweater clings to her, thin enough that I see the outline of her bra, the slope of her bruised ribs. She wraps her arms over her stomach instinctively and looks away.

I take her chin, firm but not forceful. “Eyes on me.”

She obeys. Those hazel eyes are red-rimmed, but fire still burns behind them. I keep my touch steady. “Do you want me to send you back downstairs?”

“No.” The word is immediate. She steps closer, enough that her body brushes mine, and for a second everything inside me stills. She wants proximity, wants the monster. I can give her both.