13. Andrey

13

ANDREY

I wake up with one hell of a headache.

An arm-, leg-, and torso-ache, too, actually.

Hell, even my hair hurts.

But I start to sit up, because pain has never stopped me before and it sure as fuck won't stop me now. Nothing in my world is different except?—

I'm a father now.

That's different.

The realization of everything I found in that shithole of a doctor's clinic sits me right back down in my bed.

"Fuck," I mutter, just as the door opens.

"Oh, stop your whining. It's not so bad."

The whip-sharp words are followed by the sweet old lady who voiced them. Short, grizzled, and hunched, Yelena walks over with a basin full of water.

"I could always push you out of a third-story building and see if you still feel the same way," I grumble.

She sits down on the edge of my bed. "Don't let my appearance fool you. I'm nimble as a cat. I always land on my feet."

"Shut up and pass me the water, will you?"

Chuckling, she hands me the tall glass by my bedside, her brown eyes bright and perceptive behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

"What?" I snap when she doesn't look away.

"Care to tell me about the pretty little guest in the room downstairs?"

At least that saves me the trouble of having to ask . "Just a stray I decided to bring home. Don't get attached."

"Mm. Are you following your own advice?"

I narrow my eyes, but Yelena doesn't so much as blink as she stares back at me. Of everyone in my employ, she might be the least fazed by my temper.

"She's very pretty," she adds.

I put my glass of water aside as Yelena dunks a clean rag into the basin she brought with her and starts to dab at the bandages swathed around my shoulder.

I grit my teeth as pain crackles at Yelena's touch. "More so when she keeps that pretty little mouth of hers shut."

The smile on my housekeeper's face is secretive and knowing. "I'm willing to bet that mouth of hers is exactly what landed her in this house in the first place. You always did have a thing for the feisty ones."

I decide to ignore that as she places another rag against my forehead. It's ice-cold and does wonders for my throbbing temples. "Did you speak to her?"

"She wasn't in a very chatty mood."

I bite my tongue to keep from asking more follow-up questions. I don't want Yelena getting any ideas. Well, any more ideas.

As she moves to sponge my arms, I duck away. "I can do it myself."

"You had a hard fall. No one would blame you for taking it easy for a few days."

"I have neither the time nor the luxury of taking it easy."

"Because of Nikolai?" Yelena's gaze is piercing. "Or because of the pregnant little bird you brought home with you?"

I swing my legs off the bed and get to my feet. A little too fast. My head spins and I grunt in surprised pain.

"I told you," she sighs. "You need to take it easy."

I shake off her advice and stumble around the bed to where my clothes are lying on the divan. Christ, everything hurts. "She told you she was pregnant?"

"I'm sixty-two years old, malysh ." She only ever uses that nickname when we're alone. "I recognize a pregnant woman when I see one."

I pull on a fresh pair of sweats and a t-shirt. "It's mine."

Yelena smiles as if she already knew that. "Well, I'll be damned. A little prince in the house—and a queen to go with him. What a nice change."

I skewer her with a glare. "Not a damn thing will be changing."

She laughs, heaving her old bones upright and toddling toward the exit. "How wrong you are, malysh . How very wrong you are."

The laughter follows her all the way out the door.

Ignoring the ache in my limbs, I thump downstairs—making liberal use of the banister to keep from falling on my face. Shura and Efrem are both waiting, lingering outside the room where Misha is being kept.

"'Drey," Shura greets with obvious relief. "Doing okay?"

I wave dismissively, even as my arm burns with pain. "Fine. What happened?"

"Reinforcements showed up just in time," Efrem explains. "Nikolai, miserable bastard that he is, got distracted and that gave you the chance to get away."

Shura scoffs. "You forget the part where he knocked you out and made a run for it."

A gleaming scab just above Efrem's right brow confirms as much. "He was running from me."

"Yeah, I bet you looked real scary with your ass on the floor."

Efrem scowls, poised to keep defending himself, until I hold my hand up and both men fall silent. "So he got away?"

"Snuck out the back with two of his men," Shura confirms with a sigh.

"The rest?"

"Dead."

"So we don't have any leads or leverage." I gesture towards the door of Misha's bedroom. "The boy giving you any trouble?"

Efrem shrugs. "Kid's all bark and no bite. He just hisses and spits in the corner when one of us walks in with his food. But apart from that, nothing interesting."

Shura takes a backward glance at the door. "Have you decided what you want to do with him?"

"Not yet."

The truth is, I've decided to let Misha live. I have no problem killing as many of Nikolai's men as possible. But Misha's not a man; he's a boy. He deserves better than an unmarked grave.

The only decision is: what the fuck do I do with him now?

"We could let him go?" Efrem suggests.

"What, so he can run right back to Nikolai with inside information?" Shura scoffs. "Don't be an idiot."

I ignore them both. "Releasing him is not an option. We can't trust him yet."

Shura's gaze turns thoughtful. "We could train him."

I've been toying with the same idea for the last few weeks. "It's not a bad thought," I acknowledge. "The boy has potential. He certainly has enough grit to get him through basic training."

"Grit is one thing. Loyalty is another," Efrem butts in.

"He's going stir-crazy in that room. It's not right for a young boy to be cooped up in a cell." Shura's arm twitches—the one with the long, twisting scar that seems to have no end. Shura spent most of his childhood locked in a cage by his abusive stepfather. He knows better than anyone how oppressive four walls can be.

"I'll think on it. Now, where's the girl?"

"Second room on the right," Shura informs me, tipping his head in the direction of the arched corridor.

I go there. The door is locked from the outside, like Misha's, and the curtains have been drawn. It takes a moment for me to locate her on the bed in the corner of the room. She's lying underneath a blanket and there's not even a hint of movement.

Is she sleeping…?

But when I approach, her eyes are open wide, staring at the ceiling above. She barely blinks.

"Natalia."

When I speak, she doesn't so much as flinch.

I move to the edge of her bed and run my hand along her cheek. Again—no reaction.

I pull the sheet off her. Her dress is a tangled mess. There's blood staining one corner—I don't even know whose it is—and a tear in the hem. Her face is clean, though. I'm guessing Yelena gave her the same sponge treatment she gave me.

I touch her hand and her fingers are cold.

Shock is one thing; catatonia speaks to a whole different level of trauma.

Intensely aware of the life inside of her, I grab her arms and pull her upright. She moves like a ragdoll, her weight sinking against my uninjured shoulder.

"It's okay, lastochka," I croon. "You're going to be fine."

I start undoing the buttons of her dress one by one, hoping that inspires some sort of reaction. Maybe she'll bat my hand away or tell me to fuck off.

But she doesn't move as I peel the dress off her shoulders. Then I move on to her bra and panties.

The ache in my body doesn't extend to my cock, because that part of me perks right up the moment I catch a glimpse of her soft breasts.

But my arousal is quickly washed away by worry.

She's cold .

Lifting her into my arms, I carry her into the bathroom and settle her in the tub. It takes a few minutes for the tub to fill with hot water, but while we wait, I strip naked myself, grab a hand towel from the rack, and slip in behind her. I pull her between my legs and spend the next few minutes running the towel over her body again and again.

It's immensely satisfying to watch the goosebumps on her skin disappear. To see her begin to move. A finger here, a toe there.

Eventually, her lips part and a tiny sigh escapes. It's a small thing, a fragile thing. But it breaks the spell.

Suddenly, I'm struck full-force with the realization that this was not one of my better ideas.

Before I can find a way to extricate myself from the situation, her eyes blink open as if for the first time. "It's okay, lastochka. You're safe in this house. You're safe with me."

Her fingers curl around my arm.

I want to pull her closer. Hold her longer.

I want to make promises I have no business making.

I can't afford to do any of that.

So, reluctantly, I get out of the tub and lift her into my arms again. By the time I've toweled her dry and dressed her in clean clothes, my erection is only mildly painful.

I settle her back in bed and pull the covers over her chest, and she turns to me. Her eyes are filled with dazed awareness.

Which means the fun part is over.

It's time to talk.