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“Thank you.” The words are so soft I’m not sure she’s spoken them aloud, or if I’ve imagined it. But when I look up, I find her gazing at me. Her brow is furrowed, her chin wobbling. Her dark bruises look less stark in the candlelight; but they’re still there, still evident. Still reminding me that there are men alive now, walking this earth, who put a hand on her.
My girl. My woman. And now—my wife.
My wife.
A blaze of possessiveness stokes inside of me as I think the words.Mywife. And she is now, and it is this, this possession of her, that I know will keep her safe. But it also makes me feel wild. It makes me want to do things to her, and with her; it makes me want to think of things I never let myself: the future. A family. Us, like this. Until we are old and grey.
Kat is reading. Her hand rests on mine, except for when she reaches for her wine and brings it her lips and sets it back down; then her hand falls back into place, her palm resting over my knuckles. Warm and reassuring. She feels so alive, and she is, and I need to let myself remember that: Kat is a fighter. She’s a survivor. We will get through this.
Eventually, she sighs and leans her head back and closes her eyes. Her hair is stuck to her neck in dark curls; I imagine stroking each of them back into place; I imagine tasting the damp curve of her neck, and of her earlobe. Imagine her lips, and her body, cloaked beneath the hot water and smelling of flowery oil and soap. But that’s not what tonight is about.
She towels off, and I see her to bed. More than anything, and more than I’d ever like to admit, I want to get into bed with her. How sweet would it feel, to pretend? We could just be a normal couple, a normal married couple, an average husband and wife on an average weekend evening; we could be falling asleep beside one another, snoring softly, not even having had sex. Just together. Content. Happy that way.
But it is not so, and it can’t be so. It just can’t be. In the light of her nightstand lamp, her face looks more serious. The bruises have deepened and darkened, and are now the color of a ripe plum. The gashes, which she finally admitted were the result of being backhanded by a man wearing a large ring, look raised and angry; painful. Every inch of that beautiful face, every injury, is an urgent message:Find them, it all seems to say.Find them, Aleks, and kill them.
She herself would never say words like that, I don’t think. For all her grit, she is still part of a different, safer, more mundane world than I am. But again, is that not why I’m here? To take care of the dirty work. To get my hands bloody to protect hers.
The bath has done wonders, and probably the wine has, too. No sooner has her damp hair touched the pillow is she asleep, lips parted and eyes closed. She looks perfectly peaceful, bruises and gashes and stitches and all. I touch her face, gently enough not to wake her. I bend and press my lips tenderly to her forehead.
“Goodnight, Kat,” I whisper. “I will see you in the morning.”
She doesn’t respond, only breathes long and deep, like she’s finally able to really relax after that night of terror. I’m glad.
I never was very good at goodbyes.
***
“That one,” says Yuri. One hand rests on the steering wheel of his SUV. The other points toward a hulking figure, crossing the street from a liquor store with a paper bag gripped in one meaty fist. “He matches the description best. Gregor, I think his name is.”
“There were two of them,” I reply, gripping and releasing my pistol where it rests just inside of my jacket. “Isn’t that right? Who hit her?”
Yuri nods grimly. The headlights are off and it’s late, just a few drunk or sorry souls meandering the little town street. Our intel said that Konstantin wasn’t at the location we’d hoped. No matter. This man, Gregor, was spotted just ten minutes ago, buying liquor. He must be on some kind of break from his shift or something. I don’t fucking care, frankly. If he’s setting foot in town, to me, all he’s doing is asking for it.
That man. That man laid a finger on my woman. That man made her bleed. That man backhanded her, left her battered and bruised.For that, tonight—he will die.
I hope it was fucking worth it.
Yuri waits until the man is out of sight; it’s a foggy night, dense and low, skating on the ground. The streetlamps are all reduced to hazy pillars of light, and the shadows are formless. We keep the headlights killed and the SUV quiet as we peel off from the curb, following the man into the dark. On the corner, Yuri lets me out.
He moves to park, but I stop him. “Wait here.”
“Aleks,” he says, eyes widening, but I silence his concerns with a short wave of my hand. He seals his lips, and though it’s obvious he doesn’t like it, he nods his head, and lets me go.
I step into the mist. A block down I look back. Yuri has parked the SUV and is waiting there, his shape just a silhouette and the lights and ignition down. A few more steps up the road, and the SUV disappears into the fog altogether.
Up ahead, I catch an errant glimpse of the man, Gregor, as I near him. But he’s moving fast, and after a moment the fog swallows him again, and whole. I see he’s cracked open his bottle and is swigging it, bringing his crinkling paper bag up to his mouth for clumsy, fast-paced gulps. Does he know I’m following him?
Do I give a damn?
It’s very late, but a few drunken revelers stagger past me on the corner, smoking cigarettes and laughing hysterically. The bars must have let out ages ago, what have they been doing since then, I wonder? I push past them and cross a road, and now most of the downtown businesses are all behind me. It’s lots and closed offices now, and long stands of thick trees. Fog moves in and out, through them, gushing slowly into the street, and I stop—where did he go? Have I lost sight of him?
It’s luck, or providence, or something, that he rolls a glass bottle. I hear it just in time to whip around, his meaty fist falling through the air.How did he get behind me?Doesn’t matter.I side-step the blow, his armwhooshingright past my ear. I wanted to do this cleanly, a bullet in the back, maybe—my silencer is already screwed on, and in this fog, no one would see, and no one would find him for hours.
But as Gregor charges at me, I feel a surge of bloodthirst and glee; I didn’t realize how badly I wanted an excuse to bash this man’s head in with my own two hands.
I duck his next blow, slow but heavy—one that’s going to do a lot of damage if it lands—and swing myself. I’m a lot faster than he is, and my fist glances hard off his jaw. He grunts and staggers back a step, so slow, and I swing again, and then a third time, both catching him in the nose.
I reach for my pistol, but he gets his footing and swings again. I manage to duck the first, but the second follows, a lot faster than I expect. I see the glint of the bottle, hear the rustle of paper—too late. The bottle smashes into the side of my head, closer to the crown of my skull than my temple. The pain staggers me, and the wild ferocity of the blow sends me straight off the curb.
