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Halfway in, I freeze with my thumb on the screen. My heartbeat picks up. There, in black and white, is my little princess, and she’s hugging another man.
Jealousy erupts, hot and fierce. In my mind’s eye, I see her red lips and the way I rubbed the lipstick over her face last night.
Enlarging the frame, I zoom in on the man.
He has dark-rimmed glasses and a mole on his cheek.
21
Mina
I feel bruised inside.
It’s not the cancer or the thought of never seeing Hanna again. It’s last night. The threat on Hanna’s life damaged something fragile that had started growing between Yan and me. I didn’t even realize a kernel of emotion that goes hand in hand with a deep need for his approval had germinated until I crushed it.
I know what Yan is capable of. I expected him to whip or torture me. Instead, his punishment was crueler. He couldn’t have hurt me worse than through Hanna. He’s a man who keeps his promises. He won’t hesitate to slit the throat of an innocent old woman.
I should hate him. Part of me does. Still, an undeniable part of me mourns what we’ve lost. I can’t put a label on that loss. The concept is vague, indefinable, but it doesn’t diminish the warped sense of devastation tormenting me. The notion is too twisted to examine fully, so I focus on trying to get some sleep on the plane and eat the airline food to build my strength. I need it. The job with Dimitrov is important. It’s vital to Hanna’s well-being. That’s what I have to focus on now.
Anton waits at the airport when we land. Not Ilya.
We get into the back of the car while Anton drives. Yan is tense. He doesn’t speak but keeps our fingers interlaced, placing my hand on his leg. I’m not fooled into seeing the gesture as a sign of affection. It’s just another form of restraint. It’s less brutal than a cheap hotel towel, but no less impactful.
The message is clear.
I belong to him.
It doesn’t matter now, though. This won’t last long. Leukemia goes fast. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a few months.
When we get to the apartment, I reach for the door handle, but Yan stops me. His instruction to Anton is brusque. “Take Mina for coffee.”
I go cold. “Yan.” I grab his arm. “It wasn’t Ilya’s fault.”
He shakes me off, gets out, and slams the door.
“Yan!” I push on the button to open the window, but the car is already pulling away.
Anton glares at me in the rearview mirror.
Crossing my arms, I try to dispel the chill that has invaded my body. “What are you looking at?”
“I hope you’re happy.”
He means about what’s going to happen between Yan and Ilya. I’m not happy. Far from it. Guilt is eating me, but I don’t bother telling him what I feel.
He doesn’t care, and he won’t believe me, anyway.
We go to a café. Anton orders coffee that I don’t drink. After an hour, he gets up and flicks his fingers at me. I follow, feeling like a dog. By the time we arrive at Yan’s place, my nerves are shattered.
Anton opens the door and all but shoves me inside. Anxiously, I scan the lounge. Yan is in the kitchen, a glass half-full with clear liquid in his hand. A bottle of vodka is standing on the counter, and his dark hair, normally so neatly styled, is disheveled. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The small part of his chest that’s exposed is chiseled, and his arms are muscular and veined. His body screams power, strength. The last thing I want is for him to unleash that power, and the anger churning underneath, on his brother. But what did I expect? That Yan would let a weakness go?
A toilet flushes, and someone coughs. The bathroom door opens, and Ilya steps out.
Holy shit.
He’s sporting a swollen eye and a cut on his lip, and his nose is askew.
Taking a few uncertain steps toward him, I reach for his face. “My God. Let me see.”
“Do not touch him.” Yan’s voice is harsh.
I drop my hand. “This needs ice.” I change direction for the kitchen, but Yan’s hostile tone stops me again.
“Leave it, Mina.”
I shrink back, giving Ilya a regretful look. “I’m sorry.”
Ignoring me, Ilya plops onto the couch and switches on the television.
Anton grins as he walks past me.
I stand there awkwardly, not sure what to do.
Yan takes a big swallow of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. He tilts his head toward the bedroom. “Go work on Petrova’s disguise.”
With a last look at Ilya, I escape into the room and sit down on the bed, my mind reeling.
Except for Hanna and Gergo, I hardly feel anything for anyone. It’s been tough for me to get attached to people after my parents’ deaths. It took Gergo a long time to get close to me, and I don’t think it would’ve happened if he hadn’t saved me from being gang-raped by my own teammates. But I feel now, and it’s horrible.
