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Yakov glances over his shoulder towards Mariya. She’s sitting up in bed with her headphones on, not paying any attention at all to us.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Is it a secret?”
He stands up and slides into the bed with me. His leg presses against mine beneath the thin hospital blanket as he takes up far more than his share of the bed. I’m not complaining.
“No. But I don’t want to worry Mariya.”
My heart clenches. “That means there is something to worry about?”
“There’s always something to worry about,” he mutters. “Mariya is still recovering. I want her to focus on resting and getting out of here.”
“While you focus on her recovery and how me and the baby are doing and Nikandr.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “That’s a lot for one person to take on.”
“Good thing I’m no normal person.”
“That is well-documented.” I squeeze his bicep. I wasn’t sure I’d ever touch him again. Now, he’s here and I can’t get enough. “Still, you can talk to me, Yakov. I know you can handle everything on your own, but you don’t have to.”
He sighs. “He’s in a medically-induced coma and they aren’t sure if he’ll ever come out of it. Even if he does, he could be brain-dead. He was without oxygen for… a while. His odds aren’t great.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault, either,” I tell him softly. “None of this is your fault. I know I keep saying that, but I just… I’m worried you don’t believe it.”
“I’m the pakhan, Luna. Everything is my fault in one way or another.”
“But that’s not?—”
“Shh.” Yakov wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. He presses a kiss to my temple. “Get some rest. You’re tired.”
I’m not sure how he knows I’m tired before I do, but he’s right. I’m exhausted.
I sink into his warmth and close my eyes. Does he know I dreamed about this while Akim had me locked in that cell? Being close to him? Being held by him?
I drift to sleep, his woodsy scent in my nose and wrapped around me.
When I wake up a few hours later, breathless and crying, he’s still there. He strokes my cheeks and tells me that he’s with me. That he isn’t going anywhere.
13
YAKOV
“Son of a mother-bitching fuckbag.” Mariya rips her hand away from the physical therapist’s with wide eyes. “Ouch.”
“Sorry. I know it hurts. But these exercises are important to regain full use of your hand.”
This has been going on for an hour every day for the last four days. Angela stretches Mariya’s hand, Mariya curses up a storm, and then they do it all over again.
Mariya holds her hand protectively against her chest. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. What kind of manual labor will I actually be doing? None, right? So what would it really matter if we cut this whole therapy thing short? I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Suck it up and do your exercises, Mariya,” I order. “Angela has places to be.”
“We all have places to be,” Mariya fires back. “Like my house. In my room. Where no one ever tortures me.”
Except when they break through the gates and shoot you in the front lawn.
I swallow down the words. They won’t help anything.
