“We need to get you under cold water.” I state when I notice his eyes closing. “Please, let me know if it hurts too much.”
I scoot next to him and slide my arm under his back to lift him. It’s like trying to hold up a collapsing building. I can do it though. I must.
A broken moan leaves his mouth, but he tightens his hand on the fabric of my top, aware enough that he’d feel even worse if we collapsed. “No hospital. Dangerous. I just... need to stay home.”
Has he inhaled too much smoke? Or is he simply in so much pain he’s struggling to keep up with reality?
I guess it’s up to me now. I’m both terrified and determined not to fail him. Tears might be streaking down my face, but I’m stronger than most people would give me credit for.
“Okay. I get it. Let’s get you to the bath—”
“In… panic room,” he utters, because of course he wants to go where he can lock the door and hide in case of more assassins.
“I don’t know where it is!” I choke out in frustration, my arms shaking with the effort of holding up his form.
He peeks at me, the skin on his cheekbone ever more swollen, as if something was growing underneath.He opens his mouth, uttering a series of syllables, then hisses, as if it angers him that communicating is so difficult. My thoughts once again return to the possibility of risking a hospital visit after all, but then he gestures toward the back of the studio and the cupboard with toxic vintage pigments.
“Glove container. Pull to right.”
I follow his instructions, and under the unassuming box hides a screen. Only when Seva leans forward to get his eye scanned do I realize just how swollen his face is getting. He’s struggling to keep his eye open for long enough.
The wall obscuring a door as thick as my thigh slides aside, and then we’re in. I’m holding him up, he’s stumbling like it’s an unfair three-legged race. The space inside is so well known to me by now, I welcome it in relief. Once the door locks behind us, we will be safe. I glance at the screens, but there is no movement. We’re alone.
Now, I can focus on Seva.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper as I lead him toward the bathroom. “I love you. I’ve got you.”
Chapter 20
Sevastyan
Ican’tfindacomfortable position. My flesh stings constantly, and only the cool compresses make it all bearable. A soft voice soothes the pangs inside me, and the movement of the bed when another body settles next to me proves I might not be dying on my own.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I’m like a boat in the middle of the ocean.
Aimless.
Broken.
Lost.
I might sink at any moment, but the light beckons me closer, and when my eyes finally open to a blurry world, I’m in the panic room. Alone.
My chest empties as I blink, attempting to clear my vision, but even once that happens, I see no trace of Victor. Is the sharp sting in my chest disappointment, or were my lungs damaged by the fire? I can’t even remember how I got here, but considering how much everything hurts, Victor might have dragged me here as his last favor. I suppose I should be glad I’m not yet being arrested.
A sob builds in my aching chest when I recall the devastation in my studio, the burning paintings, sketches going up in smoke. My phone is probably gone too, so any photos I had of Victor, the only tangible memories of his presence in my life, are lost forever.
Like he was never here at all.
I should be glad I’m alive instead of accepting these waves of sorrow, but it’s hard to be glad of anything when I’m in so much pain. Something taps against plastic, and when the noise doesn’t relent, I force my eyes open, looking for the source.
A moan escapes my mouth at the sight of Ratimir watching me from his cage, but as much as I want to touch him and feel his soft nose against flesh, I can’t bring myself to move yet. Guilt immediately sets in, because he might have worried seeing me lying here like a corpse. He and I are a team. He brought Victor to me, and if it wasn’t for him, my life here would have been excruciatingly empty. It’s only fair that I take care of him too.
I flinch when the heavy metal door opens abruptly. My eyelids are swollen, but I can just about see… Victor. His ginger mane is unmistakable. He’s got some kind of tray in his hands, and smiles at me softly .
This must be a dream.
I should say something, even if his presence here is a figment of my imagination, but my painfully dry throat constricts, and I roll to my side, coughing and moaning from the pain of it.
