11. Viviana

Blood dots his collar and his knuckles are cracked. Dried mud clings to his pants. Sweat slicks his golden hair back.

Mikhail is disheveled and panting and gorgeous and?—

"Here," I blurt, blinking like he might disappear between one shutter of my eyelids and the next. "You're here."

A strangled yell echoes down the hallway behind him followed by a single shot. Then the house goes quiet. Mikhail glances down the hallway once before he extends his hand towards me. "Are you ready?"

Nothing about this is funny, but a laugh chokes out of me. "‘Am I ready'? Am I—What are you doing here, Mikhail?"

Is he working with Trofim? If this is yet another betrayal, I don't think my heart can take it. On some level, I expected it from my father. But not from Mikhail. I won't survive it.

"I'd think that was obvious," he drawls. "I'm saving you."

It's not obvious to me. Nothing about what is happening right now makes any sense.

"You sent me away," I remind him. "You didn't want anything to do with me."

"And now, I'm here." He says it easily. Like it's normal. Like I should have expected it all along.

I shake my head and the room spins. I stumble to the side, but before I can even think about catching myself, Mikhail is there. His hand is firm on my shoulder. The earthy, citrus scent of him wraps around me and I want to cry.

"You're freezing." He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it. He has a fitted t-shirt on underneath that would make him Public Sex Symbol #1 if he ever walked outside in it. It's been days since I've seen almost any human and now, I'm inches away from the most perfect man I've ever laid eyes on as he drapes his body-warm shirt over my shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" I ask again. The sliver of hallway I can see through the open door is still empty. I don't hear footsteps, but someone must be coming. "Where is Trofim?"

I realize in an instant that Mikhail doesn't know Trofim is alive. No one knows he's alive except for my father. He probably thinks I've lost my mind. Hell, maybe I have.

"He's gone." Mikhail's jaw flexes.

I wait for more of an explanation. Is this Mikhail informing me that Trofim is supposed to be dead. Or does he know more than he's letting on?

"‘Gone'? In what way?" I press. "Because there might be some things about Trofim you don't know yet."

"I know he's alive. I know you didn't kill him." Our eyes meet and his are completely unreadable. If I'm forgiven, then he's going to have to spell it out for me.

"Okay, okay." I nod. "So you know he was here, but he left?"

"The coward ran." I can see flickers of what Mikhail would have unleashed had Trofim not run. The raw rage and power Mikhail contains sends a shiver down my spine. "But I'll find him. I'll make him pay for what he did to you, Viviana."

He's going to take care of me.

It's dangerous to let myself rest too hard on that point. It's proven flimsy in the past. I'm starting to think I'm the only person who can take care of me these days.

But the anger on Mikhail's face morphs into something frantic as he drags his hands over my shoulders, down my arms. He takes me in one inch at a time, his icy blue eyes assessing me even as they set me on fire. "What did he do to you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie.

Nothing is fine. But nothing matters as much as understanding what's happening in this moment.

"Why are you here?"

Mikhail hesitates for only a second before his hand slips to my cheek. His thumb brushes tenderly along my cheekbone. I don't even mind if he's smearing blood and dirt on my face, because I need this. I sink into the warmth of his hand.

"I'm here because you're here," he breathes. "And you shouldn't be. And I'm going to fix that."

Mikhail doesn't let go of my hand as he leads me out of the room and down the hallway. The guard who delivered my food the last few days is lying in a crumpled heap at the base of the stairs. I step over him without an ounce of sympathy.

Halfway up the stairs, I have to lean against the wall to catch my breath.

"Viviana?" Mikhail's voice is honey to my frayed nerves.

"I'm tired," I admit—a heroic feat in and of itself. I don't like looking weak, but my legs burn and my chest aches. I can't catch my breath. "I don't know if I can make it all the way up the stairs."

Worry etches a line between Mikhail's brows for a second before he scoops me up effortlessly.

I know I shouldn't enjoy being cradled against his body as much as I am. It will only hurt even worse later when he's gone and I'm alone again. But I just had the worst week of my life and I'm only human. So I say to hell with it, lean my cheek against his warm chest, and loop my arms around his neck.

My eyes flutter closed without my permission. I should stay awake and make sure I know where Mikhail is taking me. Every cell in my body trusts him, but I'm not sure if I should. He's still the man who kept my son and sent me out into the dark to fend for myself.

I manage to keep them open long enough to look around the main level of the house.

"This is…" I frown, peeking over Mikhail's shoulder at the vaguely familiar oil portrait hanging above the marble fireplace. "My family owns this house."

I've only been here twice before. Once, the weekend the purchase went through. The rooms were all empty and I got in trouble for sliding down the hallway in my stockings. The second time was after my mom's funeral. I guess my crying was a distraction for my father. He sent me to Staten Island to "get over it."

"He came to see me," I whisper as the picture starts to take shape. "He's working with Trofim."

Mikhail's arm tightens around my waist. "Your father is going to get what's coming to him, too."

I don't even care. I lay my head on his shoulder again and close my eyes. As long as Mikhail is holding me like this, I can forget everything else.

For now.

I drift in and out of sleep. Voices break through my subconscious, but nothing alarming. When I hear Raoul, I know everything is fine. If it wasn't, he'd still be fighting. It's a relief because I can't physically keep my eyes open anymore.

"The house is clear," Raoul reports brusquely. "Men are looking for Trofim. I'll let you know as soon as I know something." His voice softens as he adds, "How is she?"

"Weak. Exhausted." Mikhail spits the words like they make him angry.

"Have you asked her about?—"

"That can wait," Mikhail growls. "Right now, I need to make sure she's okay."

Even half-asleep, my heart jolts.

He could mean a thousand different things. He might need me to be okay because the mass grave they're digging for the men they killed tonight is already full. Or he might just want me to be fully cogent before he interrogates me about whatever Raoul was trying to mention before Mikhail cut him off.

Or—and I hold this thought loosely, afraid of what will happen if I cling to it—Mikhail might still care about me.

He settles me into the passenger seat of his car and I rest my forehead against the cool window. "I'm taking you to the hospital." Mikhail's warmth leeches into me as he buckles my seatbelt.

Alarm bells I don't fully understand start going off.

"I'm tired," I respond.

"I know." The car starts and the vibration lulls me into even deeper relaxation. "But I need to make sure you're okay, Viviana."

There it is again. That vague sentence that could mean a million different things.

I'm so focused on what that means that it takes me a long time to consider what's going to happen when the doctor finds out I'm pregnant.

But it's too late to dwell on that. I'm already breathing deeply, giving into the rumble of the car. As I fade, I feel a warm hand spread across my thigh. I want to squeeze the hand, but I can't.

I don't dare to hope that it's there for my sake.