“All right,” I say.
I sit down in the chair across from his desk and fold my hands in my lap. The office is warm and very still, and outside the tall windows, the city goes about its business, and I close my eyes for just a moment.
I’m so tired.
It’s almost over now.
The doctor drawingmy blood doesn’t seem to care about the state I am in. It’s probably not his first time in Kozlov’s office either, given how calm he is. He didn’t make eye contact when he came in. Setting his bag on the corner of the desk, he snapped on a glove and got to work.
Dark red fills the vial, steady and quick, and I’m reminded of how terrifying it was when I started out as a nurse. Now despite the fact that this is my own blood, I’m unfazed. It’s like every survival instinct has retreated deep inside me. Instead, replacing it is a growing sense of anticipation, the knowing that this will be over soon, that I’ll be free.
I’m a nurse. I know what a healthy blood panel looks like. I know what they’re checking for. Organ viability. Compatibilitymarkers. Whether I’m worth what Kozlov thinks I’m worth on whatever market he’s going to put me on.
“You’ll get the results by tomorrow morning,” the doctor says to Kozlov as he labels the vial, caps it, and then drops it into a small case. “We can proceed after that.” He snaps the case shut, picks up his bag, and walks out without looking at me once.
The door clicks behind him.
Kozlov leans back and watches me with the satisfaction of a man who has just won something and is in no rush about it. I don’t give him anything to work with. My eyes drift to the small Band-Aid pressed against the inside of my elbow.
“You—” Whatever he was going to say is cut off by a loud crash from outside.
He half rises out of the chair when the sound of something heavy hitting the floor or the wall has him reaching for the intercom. “Christopher, what’s going on out there?!”
No one replies, and Kozlov tenses. Then a voice reaches my ears from the hallway outside, and I recognize it even through two inches of solid door. My stomach drops before my brain has time to catch up with why.
The door swings open hard enough to hit the wall.
Grayson fills the frame.
His jaw is set, and his eyes are bright and wrong, too bright, the amber in them pushed toward the edges by something that isn’t amber at all. His gaze moves across the room and lands on me, and for one instant, something passes over his face that looks suspiciously like relief.
Then his expression closes.
“Get up,” he says.
I stare at him and wait for myself to feel something. I search for it the way you search a bag for keys you already know aren’t in there.
Nothing.
“How did you find me?” My voice comes out dull and strange. Someone else’s voice.
He crosses the room in four steps, grabs me by the arm, and pulls me to my feet. The room tilts hard to the left. I grab his forearm to stay upright, my fingers closing over muscle that doesn’t give at all.
“That’s what you’re going to do?” His voice is low. “You won’t take my money, but you’ll sleep with him?”
The words take a second to reach me.
“I’m not sleeping with him.” Through the numbness, a hint of anger pierces through.
“Then why are you in his office?” He looks at Kozlov over my head, and whatever expression is on his face makes Kozlov’s chair roll back six inches. “Why is she in your office?”
“I’m selling him my kidney.” No matter how hard I try to pull away, his grip is like iron.
The air goes out of the room.
Grayson turns back to me slowly. “What?”
“My kidney.” I hear how calm I sound. I find I can’t make myself sound different. “Kozlov agreed to take it in exchange for the debt.”
