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“What happened?” Chloe demands, running in after me as Lyudmila rushes out of the room. Seeing me getting dressed, she starts pulling on her clothes as well. “What did she say?”
Realizing that Lyudmila had spoken Russian, I swiftly explain that Slava has fallen ill. “He’s vomiting uncontrollably and running a high fever,” I say as I hurriedly throw on a shirt. “He needs to go to a hospital right away.”
Chloe’s eyes widen. “Oh, no. I’m coming with you.”
“Fuck, no.” My tone is much too harsh, but I don’t care. Fear, sharp and metallic, coats my tongue. My son is sick. So sick I have no choice but to risk exposing his whereabouts. The last thing I need is Chloe also in danger. “You’re staying here, where it’s safe.”
She blinks up at me. “But—”
“I’ll call you on the way.” Catching her chin, I steal a brief, hard kiss, and then I’m running to Slava’s room, my mind solely on my son and the fastest way of getting him to a hospital.
40
Chloe
“More coffee?” Alina asks, and I nod, hopping off the bar stool to pace over to the kitchen window. It’s pitch-black outside, without so much as a sliver of moonlight visible behind the thick clouds.
They’re promising rainstorms tonight—not a good thing, given the speed with which Nikolai, Pavel, and four of the guards are driving down those winding mountain roads in their SUVs. Lyudmila went with them to help take care of Slava, so Alina and I are the only ones left in the house.
The only ones not allowed to leave the house.
According to Alina, Nikolai has placed all the remaining guards on high alert, so five of them are guarding the house itself, while the rest are patrolling the perimeter of the compound in case of an attack.
“What attack?” I asked when she told me this. “Slava is just sick.”
She gave me a look suggesting I’m a naïve idiot. “There’s sick, and there’s sick—and we don’t know which this is.”
“You think he might’ve been poisoned?”
“We can’t rule out anything,” she replied, making me realize yet again just how different her and her brothers’ upbringing had been from mine.
In my world, no one would deliberately hurt a child.
I turn away from the window and walk back to the kitchen counter. “Any more updates from Pavel or Lyudmila?”
“No.” Alina hands me a fresh cup of coffee. Her eyes are as tired as mine, but her makeup and dress are impeccable—I guess on the off chance we might get invited to a gala in the middle of the night. “I don’t think they’ve gotten to the hospital yet,” she continues as I take a big gulp of my coffee. “Lyudmila said she’ll text me when they do.”
The hot liquid burns the roof of my mouth, but I drink the rest of the cup anyway, masochistically relishing the pain. It keeps me from dwelling on the most terrifying possibilities—such as Slava having been poisoned to lure him and Nikolai out of the safety of the compound, or their car going off a cliff on some dark, rain-slick road.
To make matters worse, I can’t even call or text Nikolai for reassurance, as he’s forgotten his phone here.
“This is so not like him,” I mutter, glancing again at the device I brought with me after finding it in our bedroom. “He never forgets anything.”
Alina nods somberly. “I know. I’ve never seen him this worried. Well, except for that one time with you.”
Right. When I ran, and he had to save me from the assassins—an incident that now feels like a lifetime ago.
Setting down the empty cup, I return to the window, my chest tight and my stomach on fire from nerves and excess caffeine. I’ve never felt so useless and helpless—or so much like a prisoner. Though I’ve known all along that Nikolai won’t let me leave the compound, it somehow didn’t sink in fully until tonight, when he outright refused to take me with him.
Logically, I understand why—he doesn’t need to worry about me as well as Slava—but that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be with the two people I care about most… that I’m stuck here, no matter what.
“I’ll be right back,” Alina says and slips out of the kitchen—presumably to use the bathroom. I debate pouring myself another cup of coffee while I wait, but I decide that three cups should be enough for now. Instead, I pick up Nikolai’s phone and swipe across the screen on the off chance it’s unlocked.
It’s not, of course. My security-obsessed husband would never be so careless as to leave an unlocked phone lying around. The device demands either a fingerprint or a passcode, and I have neither.
Sighing, I lay the phone on the counter and begin to pace. This is torture in the very real sense of the word. I’m so worried about Slava and Nikolai I feel physically ill, a feeling compounded by the occasional distant flicker of lightning and clap of thunder.
