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Chapter 12
Imust fall asleep. When I come to again, someone is spooning warm liquid against my lips, encouraging me to swallow.
“Nice and easy,” they urge. Vanya.
I fight through a layer of exhaustion to open my eyes, meeting his startled expression.
“That’s it,” he praises as I sip from the spoon. “Now, just rest.”
It’s so easy to surrender to his care, letting myself drift off once again.
When I open my eyes a second time, something is different. The pain has lessened, for one, and I can haul myself upright, bracing my trembling hands on either side of my body for balance. I’m alone as well. What I first mistook for a hospital room must be just another part of Mischa’s manor. I recognize the dreary lawn from the windows, and the furniture has the same stifling, ornate air to it.
However, I’m on an unfamiliar bed from my usual mattress. Someone changed the sheets while I was out, exchanging the white ones for a softer gray. They changed me as well.
Once… Years ago, Robert hit me harder than he meant to. I wound up in bed for weeks, forced to endure a painful recovery. Out of duty, or maybe guilt, Robert had an army of servants provide me with round-the-clock care.
But none of them bathed my skin with scented soap. Or washed my hair so that it smelled faintly of fresh flowers. Or kept me so clean that I didn’t feel like an invalid.
But I was. I am. A metal tray stands a few paces from the bed, complete with a steaming meal someone must have been in the process of feeding me. Memories return as cloudy, intangible snippets: soups and broths carefully poured down my throat while I was barely conscious.
By Vanya? Only he would have the patience. The care.
Only he would be so kind.
Gratitude unlike anything I’ve ever felt swells in my chest, making it even harder to breathe. Nikolaus inflicted his damage well. I wonder if the bastard is in hell.
Because he most certainly isn’t still alive. I’m sure of it, just as I’m sure that Mischa is watching me. I can’t see him yet, but I smell him. Lurking near the doorway maybe?
After swiping my tongue along my dry lips, I croak, “I know you’re there.”
God, I sound horrible. So pathetically weak. Pity must be what makes him drop his ruse and finally round the edge of the doorway.
My eyes widen at his appearance. It has to have been days since I last saw him. The stubble growing in along his jaw is thicker. Scraggly. Unkempt. His hair is a messy, unwashed tangle, his clothing a pair of faded fatigues.
“So,” he begins in a low, gruff tone, “Little Rose has finally decided to grace us with her miraculous return.”
Finally. The emphasis he placed on that word draws my attention. “How…” I wheeze as my chest constricts and take my time forming my next words. “How long was I out?”
“A month,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe more than that. Your injuries were stabilized within a few days, but you…” He grunts a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh had it come from any other man. “The stubborn, spiteful Little Rose wouldn’t let a mere doctor dictate her recovery.”
He enters the room and his scent descends at full force. Sweat and animalistic musk. How long has he been there, watching me? Long enough, a part of me suspects. Long enough to immediately go to the food and wrestle the tray closer.
My stomach grumbles, embarrassingly loud, but when he shoves a spoonful of broth beneath my nose, I shake my head, choosing to speak instead.
“You…lied.”
He drops the spoon into the bowl, spraying broth across the tray’s surface. “Did I now?”
But it’s a reality that haunted me, even as my soul drifted for days at a time.
“Robert,” I rasp. “He’s alive. You lied to me. He’salive.”
Fire ignites in my jaw and I gingerly reach up, brushing my fingers along the sore tissue. Even that slight motion takes more energy than I have in me. Groaning, I slump back against a wall of pillows, forced to view Mischa from a newer angle.
He’s chuckling, his gaze averted away from me. Down at his hands. The nails are ragged, with a dark substance caught beneath them. Dirt? Or Blood?
“Does his life matter to you that much?”
