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The alley behind the bakery.
The gun.
It hits me all at once.
This is a dream.
I’m curled against Ivan’s chest, but the gauzy filter of the dream is gone. The car is dark, but streetlights paint the interior yellow every few seconds as Yasha flies down the road.
I look up in a moment of light and catch a glimpse of Ivan’s face. Blood is splattered across his cheek. I don’t think it’s his.
It’s hard to think of anything. My thoughts feel faraway, disjointed. Maybe I’m still dreaming. But this doesn’t feel like a dream.
My head is pounding and my bones ache. It feels like they’re grinding together with every bump of the car. My stomach swirls. If I’d eaten more than one bite of cake, I know I’d be throwing it up right now.
The worst part is, all I want to do is go back to sleep.
Back into my dream.
As if he can sense my discomfort, Ivan smooths a hand down my spine. He draws me close to him, encircling me with his arms and his scent. It’s not the gunpowder and dust of the alley, but something quintessentially Ivan. It makes me think of warm nights beneath the stars. Of crisp breezes and moonlight.
My eyes flutter closed, and I feel his breath on my cheek.
Soft words spoken in Russian, whispered like a promise against my skin.
I don’t know what he’s saying, but I sink into the words and his arms. I let them carry me away.
54
IVAN
Yasha skids to a stop in the driveway. “Hold on, and I can get the doors for—”
But I’m already in motion.
I’ve been watching Cora every second of the drive, counting her breaths. Waiting for them to grow shallow, to stop coming altogether.
I can’t sit still for another second. There isn’t time to wait.
I fold her against my chest and run for the front doors. Per my orders, Dr. Popov is already here. He opens the front door as I mount the steps and ushers us inside.
“I have my things set up in the sitting room.” He starts to lead the way, but I brush past him.
Faster. Everyone needs to move faster.
Dr. Popov is nearing eighty. He’s been a Bratva doctor since well before I was born. One day, he’ll need to be replaced. But for today, he keeps pace with me just fine.
“Lay her on the couch.” He slides his stethoscope into his ears and lays a hand on my shoulder. “You can wait in the kitchen until I’m—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I growl.
I let her out of my sight once, and someone attacked her. Somehow, without me noticing, someone got to her.
I refuse to let it happen again.
The doctor stares at me, not in defiance, but in question. I’ve never overseen his work before. There’s never been a need to. I know he’ll always do his best to take care of any patient in front of him.
This is different.
