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I try to sit up only to wheeze, my eyes watering as the pressure in my chest tightens. Mischa isn’t sitting on me after all. Vaguely, I remember being struck. Beaten. By Nikolaus.
He broke my ribs, I think.
And my leg. Both of them, it seems. One is encased in a bulky cast, propped upright, while a neat array of bandages covers the other. My blankets have been pulled back to reveal both, including the strange purple markings marring my cast. I scan them all, increasingly confused. One drawing consists of a lopsided smiley face. Another is of a crudely etched tree. And finally, a man with long, squiggly hair and exaggerated magenta eyes glares at me from the space near my ankle.
I stiffen as someone approaches, traipsing down what I assume is a hallway. Two footsteps, one light and swift, the other heavy and slow.
“What is it?” Mischa grumbles. “If you drew on the goddamn cast again, I swear I’ll—” He breaks off the second he rounds the corner, spotting me awake.
By his side, leading him by the sleeve of his shirt is the girl from Nicolai’s.
“I see.” Mischa’s expression falls into the stern mask I know so well. “Leave.” He wrenches his arm from the girl.
Despite the authority lacing his tone, she lingers, watching me with wide, owl-like eyes.
“Go,” he snarls more harshly, and she finally scurries off.
Alone, my captor watches me with an unreadable gaze, and paranoia eats at my pain. How often has he lorded over me like this? Waiting for me to die. Daring me to.
Silently, he advances. Outstretched fingers reach for my cheek, but I turn away, gritting my teeth. My jaw is so sore that a moan escapes when I don’t mean to do it.
Mischa draws his hand back anyway, his eyes narrowing. Then he turns and leaves without a word.
