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“I said what I said.”

“I’m twenty!”

“It’s never too early to plan.” She pressed the handkerchief to her nose with a great show of woe. She was so obviously enjoying herself that I realized, with a shock, that she was pretending. She’d been ready for this. She’d been ready, maybe, for years. My mother was a drama queen of the first order and she’d known.

I started to laugh.

“Lex.”

It wasn’t my mother. It was a voice from the bed.

It was low and hoarse and rusty, with a faint, familiar, rolling Slavic curl on the vowels. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

I spun.

Maksim’s eyes were open.

He was looking at me. Gray, tired, red-rimmed, and unmistakably himself. He lay very still, propped against the pillow, with his hair in wild disorder and the hospital gown gaping at his throat. One hand was raised an inch from the blanket, reaching.

I crossed the room in one stride and fell on my knees at his side. “Hey, hey, hey. You’re awake.”

“Baby,” he said. “You are okay.”

“I’m fine. I’m great. You got shot.”

“It was not so serious.”

“It was a silver bullet, you moron.”

“It has been worse.” His hand found my cheek. It was cool and unsteady and it cupped my face as though it was made of glass. He drew me down, and kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes.

“Behave,” I whispered. “My mom’s here.”

“I think,” said Maksim, staring past me at the doorway, “it is too late.”

I turned my head.

My mother stood at the foot of the bed with her arms folded and her chin lifted and her eyebrows sharply raised. Jenny was beside her, with both hands over her mouth. Behind them, in the doorway, stood Jason, who’d woken up, and Sabine, who’d returned with a paper bag of sandwiches. They were all looking at us. I could feel my ears turn scarlet.

“Well,” said my mother. “Don’t mind us.”

“Mom—”

“Should I knock?”

“Mom.”

“I am only asking.” She came around the side of the bed. She looked Maksim up and down, from the mussed hair to the pale throat to the big, elegant, blood-stained hand still cupped against her son’s face. “So. You are the one who stole my boy’s heart.”

“Mrs. Pendleton,” said Maksim, with the courtly gravity of a man addressing a queen. “I am very glad to meet you.”

“What kind of sorcery did you use? I want to know. What did you do to make him love you?”

“I did nothing, madam. I merely loved him first.”

My mother blinked.

“I love your son,” said Maksim. He lifted himself on one elbow, with an effort that I could see was costing him, and looked her straight in the eye. “I promise you that I will never break his heart. I will love him, protect him, and cherish him for as long as I live. That is a long time. I do not make the promise lightly.”