Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I take the stairs two at a time, and when I step into the room, she startles awake. I didn’t realize she’d fallen back asleep.
Her wide eyes dart to me, and she shrinks into the couch like prey sensing the predator’s approach. When I see the bruise on her cheek and the cast on her leg, the rage surfaces again. She ran from me. She ran from all of us. The car, her pain—it’s all part of a game she tried to play. In the life I lead, you either run toward danger, or it finds you.
I haven’t forgotten that I was the one she was running away from. I was the one she was trying to escape. It’s my fault she was hit by a car.
And for the first time, I wonder, why did she run from me to begin with? We hadn’t even met. What drove her to do that?
"I brought you some food." She jumps at the sound of my voice. I guess it’s louder than I expected. It booms in the interior of the room. Terrifying everyone around me seems like the order of the fucking day. Why does that not bring the satisfaction it once did?
"Thanks," she says in a quiet voice. "Do you know if I’m due for pain meds? I’m in a lot of pain."
I lay the tray down. “Let me check." It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have to keep my voice quiet and gentle. Between her and Zoya, I practically have to reinvent myself ever time I turn around.
I glance at the little timetable to see when she’s due for meds next. It’s just about time, but she isn’t due yet. She still needs a heavy dose, then.
"Yeah," I say, looking at the orange bottles in front of us. "You could definitely use some more." I shake some into my palm and hand her a glass of water. She picks it up without a word, and it hits me hard. She has no choice but to take what I hand her—the meds, the food… the truth. What I hand to her is all she knows, all she can swallow. Having someone’s life in your hands is heavy enough. But this? This is something else.
I drag a hand through my hair, surprised to find it damp. It isn’t even warm in here—what the hell is this? Nerves? I don’t get nervous. I sit down beside her.
“That was a pretty deep sigh,” she murmurs, shifting as she tries to push herself up. I hadn’t even realized I sighed. Leaning forward, I take her by the elbows, lifting her so I can adjust the pillows behind her back.
“Better?"
"Much. That smells so good. I didn’t realize how starving I was.”
"Me neither. My sister is quite a cook."
She frowns, looking down at the food. “Zoya?”
I nod. "You don’t like it?"
Zoya has given us such a variety that I’d be surprised if there wasn’t something here she liked. There’s a generous bowl of borscht with sour cream drizzled on top, golden pelmeni stuffed with savory meat, and a platter of pirozhki, the smell of freshly baked dough making my mouth water. Even blini, thin and delicate, with bowls of honey, sit beside the plates. In the corner sits a small crock filled with cookies Zoya’s recently baked. A carafe of wine completes the ensemble.
"No, sorry," she says softly. "This looks amazing. I was just trying to remember if I know how to cook. Do you know? Can I?"
I try to answer as many things honestly as I can. "I don’t. Remember, we haven’t gotten along before."
"Yes, that's right,” she says.
I reach to take a napkin off one of the dishes, and she flinches back—something I should be used to by now. Everyone I know fears me, even Zoya and Yana, my own flesh and blood. But when Anissa shrinks back, it’s different.
But maybe this time, it has to be different.
"You should eat food with that medication. You should not take it on an empty stomach." She nods wordlessly. Reaching for a fork, she takes the food I give her.
"Think of it this way," I tell her with a pretty lame attempt at humor. "Everything is a new experience."
She doesn't smile. My god, but she's beautiful. Porcelain skin, wide blue eyes framed with thick, blonde lashes, her hair so light it's almost white, cascading down the side of her shoulder, hiding the lacerations on her arm.
"That is one way I could look at it," she says with a little smile. "I don't know much about what happened to me, but it doesn't make sense that I have no memory at all, Rafail. I shouldn't say that," she says, shaking her head. "I remember a few faces. And I know some of them are familiar." Frowning, she looks down at her tray. "But you are wholly unfamiliar to me. So is this room. Your sisters, your brothers… I feel as if I've never met any of you before."