"Delicious." I don’t even taste it, but I’m trying. Goddamn, I’m trying.
"Just a few simple things," she says quietly. "I really hope she likes them. And you, too, of course," she stammers, shaking her head. "But you like everything I make, Rafail." She gives me a shy smile. On impulse, I reach for her and give her a quick hug.No matter how much I scold her to eat, she only pecks at her food like a little bird, small and fragile.
"I do love everything you make. Thank you for this. She’s going to be very glad to have you as a sister, Zoya."
I take the platter, turn, and head upstairs. The smell of roasted potatoes and savory meat pie makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I like a good meal, but I don’t remember the last time I ate one. It’s been a bullshit couple of days with one thing after another.
But now I need to slow down, something I don’t do very well. I need to get to know my new wife. How the fuck do I do that?
I’ve never had to make small talk or be personable.God.
The idea makes me sick.
I don’t know what the fuck those guys were talking about with the “beast,” but I feel for the guy if this is what he had to go through.
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 fromallof 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 itfindsyou.
I haven’t forgotten thatIwas the one she was running away from.Iwas the one she was trying to escape. It’smy faultshe 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 every 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. Leaningforward, I take her by the elbows, lifting her so I can adjust the pillows behind her back.
“Better?"
"Much. That smellssogood. 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?CanI?"
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, ithasto be different.
