Viktor.
For one confused second, I just stare at him.
He looks exhausted. His coat is wet at the shoulders, his hair slightly disordered, his face harder than usual. But it’s him. Solid, familiar, alive.
Relief hits so hard I almost cry.
“Viktor?”
“Yes.”
“How did you?—”
“I’ve been looking for you since the south canal.”
Everything comes back in a rush.
I reach for him before I think about it.
Viktor stills when I wrap my arms around him. He’s not a man made for comfort, not like this, but after a second his hand comes carefully to my back, avoiding the bandage.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
I pull back, wiping at my face quickly. “Yaromir?”
Viktor’s expression changes.
My relief disappears. “What?” I ask.
He looks toward the door, then back at me. “Tell me what happened.”
“Where is he?”
“Anya.”
“Tell me where my husband is.”
His jaw tightens. “Planning to tear down the Volkov house.”
My blood goes cold. “No.”
“He thinks you’re dead.”
“No.” I try to sit up again, slower this time, but the pain still claws through me. “Did the hospital call him?”
“No.”
“Then how did you find me?”
His face tightens. That small hesitation makes my stomach turn.
“Viktor.”
“A body was found near the canal.”
For a second, the room goes soundless. The monitor beside my bed keeps beeping, but it feels far away now. My hand moves to my stomach beneath the blanket.
“A body?” I whisper.
