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“Fine,” I say. “Who is he?”
“Who?”
“The man I almost killed.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Yes. No shit. But who is he?”
She folds her arms and gives me that patient, long-suffering expression usually reserved for unstable animals and difficult children. “His name is Adrian.”
I repeat it once in my head, tasting it for threats. “Does Adrian know he’s alive right now entirely because you touched my arm?”
Alya laughs. “Probably.”
“Good. He should stay humble.”
“Ilya—”
“No, I need details.” I narrow my eyes at her. “How long has this been going on? What does he do? Is he stupid? Does he have money? Does he have enemies? Is he one of those men who thinks women belong in the kitchen? Is he looking for death?”
“He’s not looking for death,” she says between laughs.
“He was kissing you in public. That’s suicidal to me anyway. Does he treat you right?”
Her expression gentles. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“If he ever upsets you, I’ll bury him.”
“I know.”
“If he raises his voice at you, I’ll break his jaw.”
She sighs dramatically. “You’re so intense.”
“I’m your brother. Intensity is part of the package.”
“And the threats?”
“Included at no extra charge.”
That gets another laugh out of her, but I can see she’s touched too. Just a little.
“So,” I say, returning to business, “can he fight? Do I need to test him?”
“You’re not testing him.”
“I disagree.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Exactly. That’s why he should be evaluated.”
Alya steps in and hooks her arm through mine before I can continue my very reasonable interrogation.
