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They moved slowly through the living room, and Kira sighed as the lake came into view beyond the terrace. She was glad to be back. In spite of everything. In spite of the suffering and sadness she’d endured here. In spite of the penthouse’s coldness and sterility.
Zoya was here. The birds.
Lyon.
It hurt to go up the stairs. Kira held tight to Lyon, who eased her up one step at a time. They continued down the hall, and Kira smiled at the sound of the birds chirping with excitement, like they knew she was home.
“I can move them if you want,” Lyon said. “The birds. If they make too much noise. Just for awhile, so you can rest.”
“No,” Kira said. “They make me happy.”
By the time they made it to the end of the hall, she was sweating and exhausted. Lyon eased her into the room and guided her toward the bed.
“I need a bath.” She felt disgusting, in need of soap and water and another change of clothes, even though Lyon had brought the softest tracksuit she owned to the hospital.
Lyon set her gently on the bed. “Wait here.”
She tried to laugh, but it hurt her ribs, sounded like a witch’s cackle. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and a moment later she heard the water running. He reappeared a few seconds later holding her lavender bath salts, his forehead furrowed with concern.
“Do you want this? Will it hurt you?”
“Yes, please. It’ll be fine.” Her face had cuts from Musa’s ring, but her body was mostly bruised.
He retreated and a few minutes later the water stopped running.
He helped her into the bathroom, set her on the edge of a low shelf that ran along one wall, helped her out of her clothes. It was hard to reconcile this man, this giant man with tender hands who soothed her with gentle words, who tried so very hard not to hurt her, with the man who’d greeted her return to Chicago with such hard fury.
But here he was, kneeling at her feet, taking care of her.
She was naked except for her underwear when she reached out, stroked his hair.
He froze and looked up at her.
“Thank you,” she said, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
He shook his head. “You don’t have to thank me. This is…” He drew in a long shuddering breath. “This is the very least I can do, Kira. You’re my wife.”
Was that all? A duty? An obligation?
She was too tired, too afraid to ask.
He helped her to her feet. “Can I help you out of these?” he asked, touching the waistband of her underwear.
“Please.”
He knelt again. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”
She did, and he peeled off the underwear. She had a moment of panic, wondered if he’d notice the subtle differences in her body. But he said nothing, just helped her to the tub and eased her into the water.
She sighed with relief as she sank into it, warm on the verge of being hot, and inhaled the scent of lavender.
“Is the temperature okay?” he asked. “I can — ”
“It’s perfect.” She held out a dripping hand and he took it. “Thank you.”
She was startled by the ringing of his phone.
