Page 20

The rule, I note distantly, appears to have an exception. Or worse, the rule is completely broken, and I am letting it happen.

I file it under things to worry about later and focus on the woman in my arms. She’s beginning to slowly, incrementally, stop shaking. Her breathing is evening out, still hitching occasionally, but the worst of the panic has passed.

Very quietly, muffled against my shirt, she whispers, “I’m sorry about the coffeepot.”

I look down at the top of her head.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at me, her face a teary mess with strands of hair stuck to her wet cheeks. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and the bruise along her cheekbone is standing out darker than ever.

“I’ll pay you back,” she gasps out. “I just—I just don’t have any money right now. But I will. I promise I will.”

A spoiled rich girl with no thought for anyone but herself. That’s what I assumed about Viktoriya. Filtered selfies and family who loves her enough to hire me. And here she is, on a motel floor, promising to pay me back for a ten-dollar coffeepot she broke by accident, with absolute seriousness.

The realization of how terrifying her life must be hits me like a fist to the gut. I picture her rich father slapping her for spilling wine at the dinner table, and my stomach curdles.

“Viktoriya,” I say again. “It doesn’t matter.”

She flinches at my insistence.

Too sharp. I’m still too sharp with her.

I try again, softer. “It was an accident. You don’t owe me anything for it.” I pause. “Are you listening to me?”

A small nod against my chest.

“Good.” I let out a slow breath.

She’s been holding herself so tightly against so much trauma, and this ordinary accident found her weak point, causing her to shatter.

I pick up her hand and look at it. Not the wrist that’s broken, but her other hand that she was using to pick up shards of glass. Her fingertips are still bleeding. I remember her hunched on the floor, panicked and desperate, trying to clean it up before I could react.

My chest tightens with anger at the man who taught her to fear a broken dish.

I look down at her cut fingertips and make a decision. She got hurt on my watch. That can’t happen again.

“I need you to listen to me,” I say. “Can you do that?”

She goes still for a moment, and then gives a small, wary nod.

“Good.” I keep my voice low and unhurried. The voice I use when I need someone to stay calm and follow instructions. “We’re going to do a few things. Small things. First, I’m going to clean up the glass and put something on these fingers.” I stroke the pad of my thumb over her palm. The cuts are shallow, but they need covering. “Then you’re going to have a shower and put on some clean clothes. All right?”

A pause, and then she whispers, “I thought you were in a hurry to get rid of me.”

The words land more brutally than she probably intends.

“I’ll worry about the schedule,” I say. “Will you do this for me? I know your wrist will make it difficult. Just do the best you can. My name is Zevran, by the way.”

“Zevran,” she repeats softly.

I feel her nod, and only then do I realize I was holding my breath.

The tightness in my chest loosens.

I set her carefully on the edge of the bed and get to work. I sweep the glass into the trash with a hand towel, and lay a fresh towel down across the bathroom floor in case I’ve missed any shards. I find the first aid kit, sit beside her, and place small bandages on each fingertip, one by one. She watches me do this with a cautious expression, like she’s waiting for the trap to spring.

There is no trap. I just can’t stomach seeing her hurt.