Page 40 of The Encore’s Crown

Get the fucking blanket.

I step into the main cabin and tap Rafe on the shoulder.

“I’m staying back there with her,” I say quietly. “If she tries to stand up on her own, she could get hurt.”

His eyes narrow, then flick toward the cracked lounge door behind me. I know exactly what he’s thinking, which is irritating because I've also thought several versions of it. Before he can say anything, Kasia touches his arm, relief softening everything in her face.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “We'd appreciate that.” That settles it.

I grab a blanket and head back, leaving the sliding door cracked, nothing hidden or shady, nothing for Rafe to panic about. No trace of something he can interpret as me taking advantage of a drunk woman after kissing her against a wall like it was my dying wish just a few hours ago.

She’s sprawled sideways on the couch when I return, one shoe dangling from her toes. She doesn’t stir when I take off her heels or when I set them neatly beneath the table, but when I pull the blanket over her legs her eyes flutter open and she reaches blindly in my direction. I hesitate, then move to the far end of the couch.

But Natalia is on a mission. She scoots toward me, finally claiming my legs with her head as it lands heavily against my thigh. I go completely still. Her cheek presses into my leg, warm even through my pants.

This is fine. Practical.

She needs to lie on her side anyway in case she gets sick, perfectly reasonable positioning. I gently adjust her head so her neck isn’t bent at an uncomfortable angle. Her eyes open halfway and she smiles up at me, sleepy and gentle. Something in my chest rattles around at the look in her eyes. I can’t help the smile that tugs back.

“You were snoring,” I whisper. “Whole bus was shaking.”

The joke barely lands, but it gets a tiny curl from the corner of her mouth before she responds with a groan.

“Kurwa. All men do is lie.”

Her hair is everywhere. I brush one strand away from her face before it gets caught against her lips. She makes a soft sound, almost a purr. My hand stops. I should pull it back.

I do.

Eventually.

My mind still can't quite believe the voice I talked to over messages, is right here, in my lap. Like this, she looks so vulnerable and a little broken, no armor left. None of that usual Natalia fire, like she could take on the world for fun. I let myself have this moment. A second where I can pretend that none of the consequences exist. That I’m allowed to want her, to keep her safe. To feel any of this.

I'll let it out, just for today. For her.

Nat grapples for the purse she dumped on the coffee table with the clumsy precision of the painfully inebriated before finally giving up and collapsing back against me. Her brows pull together, and she exhales so loudly I’m sure the whole bus hears. Then she looks at me.

"What time is it?"

I check my watch. "11:45."

“11:45, hah,” she mutters. “This day will never fucking end.”

She’s rolls onto her side now, away from me, eyes on the floor, body curled inward. I adjust slightly, putting both my hands on the back of the couch, far enough away that if Rafe walks in, I can claim this whole setup is just innocent. A simple, sensible lie wrapped around the truth.

My hands flex as I breathe out. The tattoo on my right hand catches my eye, the ink curling over the ridge of a scar I earned the first time I fought back. I remember the wild swing, the way it connected, the shock on my dad’s face before he finally understood I wasn’t his goddamn punching bag anymore. The last time he ever put his hands on me, my mother, or Rithy. At least, when I was around. It’s strange how certain memories echo in moments like this.

I look back at her just as the first tears hit my knee, then another. At first, I don’t know what to do. Natalia's not exactly someone who invites comforting. Half the time, reaching toward her feels like approaching an animal with its foot caught in a trap. Maybe she’ll understand you’re trying to help or maybe she’ll bite through your hand.

I place my palm carefully against her shoulder. She sighs, wipes her face, then rolls onto her back and drags both hands over her eyes. Then she starts talking, no warning or buildup, just the raw honesty that only comes when someone is drunk enough to finally stop holding everything in.

“He was so damn stubborn,” she says, voice thick. “Wouldn’t just take a day off from his shop. Always fixing a fucking car. He got so wasted at Amelka’s party… he was probably still drunk the next morning.” She gives a humorless laugh. “Polish vodka ran in his veins, not blood.”

I huff a breath at that.

“He’d be pissed at me,” she continues. “For blaming the vodka and not him for not double-checking the jack. He always took responsibility. For everything.”

She sighs again, deeper this time, and lets her arm hang limply off the couch. The other rests on her forehead before she turns her head toward me, eyes glittering under the dim lights.