16. Sasha
16
SASHA
After Jasmine leaves, I’m left staring at the plate of peach slices like it holds all the answers. It doesn’t, of course. It’s just fruit. But that doesn’t stop me from looking for meaning anywhere I can find it.
The peach bleeds juice across the chipped plate. I watch it pool in the crevices of old ceramic, sticky-sweet and cloying. My reflection warps in the syrup—a gaunt ghost with too-sharp cheekbones and eyes like bullet holes.
The knife trembles in my grip. I set it down before I can slip again, though the small nick on my hand has already stopped bleeding.
But I snatch it right back up when I hear footsteps stomping through the gravel outside. I’m turning toward the door when it bursts inward?—
And Kosti barges in, whistling something peppy.
“ Blyat’, you old idiot, I almost stuck this in your throat.”
Kosti turns to look at me, with one thick eyebrow raised like a caterpillar crawling toward his hairline. “Testy this morning, are we?”
Dust clings to his boots. The sharp tang of gun oil cuts through the kitchen’s garlic-and-wine haze.
“Smells like my grandmother’s house in here,” he remarks, shrugging off his coat. “If my grandmother was a chain-smoking war criminal.”
“Knowing you, she might’ve been.” I lean against the counter, careful to keep my weight off my screaming left side. “Where were you?”
“Tending the goats.”
“We don’t have goats.”
He grins, all yellowed teeth and secrets. “Exactly.” He nods at the stove. “That supposed to be edible?”
“It’s risotto, so yes.”
“Looks like wet cement.”
“Then don’t eat it. See if I give a damn.” I reach for the parmesan from the cabinet overhead. But as I do, the movement tugs at the knot of still-healing scar tissue beneath my ribs. Fire licks up my flank and my hand spasms. The block of cheese slips, cracks against the counter.
Kosti’s gaze sharpens. “How’s the gut?”
“Fine.” I straighten my spine, refusing to let him see how the simple act of standing upright makes my shoulder ache.
“Bullshit.” He crowds into my space and pokes two fingers below my sternum. I jerk back with a hiss and he nods knowingly. “Ah-ha. I thought you were fine?”
I bat his hand away. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, ‘nothing’ has you sweating like a whore in church.” He squints at me. “When are you planning to go back?”
The question catches me off-guard. “What?”
“To New York. To whatever revenge fantasy you’ve been cooking up between your perimeter checks.” His voice hardens. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know that look in your eyes. You can’t wait to go martyr yourself.”
“The sooner, the better.” The paring knife winks at me from the cutting board. I press my thumb to the blade until the bite of steel grounds me. “The longer we wait?—”
“The longer your bullet wound has to heal?” He barks a laugh. “Yeah, I can see how well that’s going. You can barely lift a fucking pan without wincing.”
“I’ve fought through worse.”
“And that’s worked out nicely for you so far?” He gestures at my bandaged torso. “Tell me, what’s your brilliant plan? Hobble into battle and hope Dragan doesn’t notice you’re moving like an arthritic babushka ?”
Anger flares hot in my gut. “You don’t understand?—”
“No, you don’t understand.” He closes the distance between us, jabbing a finger into my chest again. Right over the wound. I grit my teeth against the spike of pain. “If you go back now, you’re dead. Simple as that. And then what happens to her? To those babies?”
“I can protect them?—”
“You can’t even protect yourself!” His voice booms, filling the kitchen. “The doctors said eight to ten weeks for full recovery. Minimum. You really want to gamble lives on your pride?”
Before I can respond, the lights flicker overhead. Once, twice, then plunge us into shadow. My body moves on pure instinct—knife already in hand as I lunge toward the door.
But the sudden movement sends agony ripping through my chest. I double over, spots dancing in my vision.
“Case in fucking point,” Kosti mutters, steadying me with a grip on my good shoulder. “Sit down before you fall down, son.”
The lights sputter back to life. No gunfire follows. No breaking glass. Just the whine of dilapidated wiring and the growing rumble of thunder outside.
Humiliation curdles in my throat. I shove him off.
“The generator is old and finicky,” he explains. “But it’s just a blip, son. Nothing needs killing.”
I let the knife clatter onto the counter as I grimace. “Are you happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” he responds, surprisingly gentle all of the sudden. “You’ve proved my point better than I ever could.”
Through the window, I watch afternoon storm clouds gather over the hills. The sky darkens to the color of old bruises. In her room upstairs, Ariel is probably watching the same view, trapped by her own condition just as surely as I’m trapped by mine.
The irony would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.
Kosti busies himself at the stove, stirring the risotto I abandoned. The strong line of his shoulders betrays tension I can’t quite decode. “Sometimes,” he says without turning, “the bravest thing a warrior can do is wait.”
“Bravery and desperation look the same in the dark.”
He chuckles. “I’ve found them to be two sides of the same coin.” He adds a splash of wine to the pan. The smell of garlic and butter intensifies. “You think I spent my morning picking daisies?”
“You still haven’t said what you’ve spent your morning doing.”
“Making sure we stay ghosts a little longer.” His smile is as vague as his answer. “The less you know about that, the better.”
Lightning flashes outside, painting his face in stark relief. For a moment, I see the man he must have been in his prime—the soldier, the killer, the shadow in the dark. Then he’s just Kosti again, an old man stirring dinner in a decrepit kitchen.
“You’re playing some kind of game,” I accuse.
He shrugs. “Aren’t we all?”