Chapter 26 - Igor
TWENTY-SIX
IGOR
PRESENT DAY
My shoulders hurt and my gut pulses. I didn’t even know it was a bodily sensation I could have.
My intestines must still be inside my body for them to have their own pulse, and for it to be in tandem with my thrashing heart.
Light assaults my eyes every time I try to open them, but somehow, there’s always a silhouette looming over me to shield me from it all.
It’s nice. I want the silhouette to stop shifting, and to keep me in the darkness.
I hear voices as though I’m in a fish tank. They’re talking about me, I think. I only grasp a few words. ‘Extensive injuries’, ‘long recovery time’, and other bullshit.
That’s when I know I failed. I’m still alive.
Probably in a hospital given the scent of lemon bleach cleaner and disease.
It’s that particular scent that makes me wrinkle my nose.
If that wasn’t enough to have nausea rising in my throat, the fact that the words are spoken in Russian is the last straw.
There’s only one reason I’m in a hospital where Russian is the used language.
I’m still under my brother’s thumb.
A single tear falls from my eye, trailing on my temple and landing at the shell of my ear.
I’m still a prisoner to the horrors of the man I wanted to call family.
I don’t try to open my eyes again. There’ll be hell to pay when I wake up. But for now, I’m so, so tired. I let exhaustion and years of abuse and powerlessness take me under, hoping I don’t ever wake up.
Seagulls croak outside my window. A breeze of cold sea air makes it through the room and when I take a breath, I’m transported to that place I loved.
That land between sea and mountains, where the wine is rich, the earth plentiful and the people loud.
The sun shines its soft winter rays through the sheer fabric of the curtains.
I’m dreaming again.
A shiver rakes my body, waking me up. It’s still winter, yet the temperature is nice across my skin. Nothing like the icy, harsh weather of Moscow in February. It’s almost like winter calls to spring.
I must be lingering in dreams and conjuring up something to help me face the truth of my situation. There is no escaping my brother.
My eyelids twitch before I blink a few times, eyes dry and mouth parched.
“Here,” a voice like an angel’s says.
A straw makes its way past my lips before life-giving fresh water. I gulp greedily. My vision settles. I stop drinking. My throat is raw for a whole new reason.
“Julian.”
“Hi, baby,” he says as he caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers.
Seated on the side of the bed, by my hip, Julian’s eyes are sunken and his skin has that greyish undertone of someone who’s been sick.
His blond curls graze the side of his face where a light stumble is shading his jaw.
It gives him an older, more serious look.
The shine over the baby blues I could never forget look like tears he can’t shed.
Maybe he’s like me; he’s done enough crying to last him a lifetime.
The contact of his skin on mine brings up the events of the past few days. I stare at him. And stare some more.
He’s the same I saw in Moscow… Fuck, when was it? Yesterday? Three days ago? I don’t know what time it is or what I’m doing here, all I know is that my body feels like it’s been run over by a train, and the background noises hint at being back on Kalliste.
“Can you close the window, please?”
His brow dips, but he stands and does as I asked without another question, returning to his exact same spot once he’s done. The noises get muffled and the breeze contained to the outside world.
So, he’s truly here, not a mere thought but my husband in the flesh. And I’m really alive.
As though I need one more confirmation, one more proof, I look around.
I’m lying on a bed in a room I’ve never seen before.
The walls are beige and deep marine blue, the curtains around the window a simple sheer fabric the same colour as the walls.
It’s elegant and understated. Not what I imagined he’d choose for himself, but maybe this is Lana’s space.
The brass-coloured lamp standing by a dresser behind Julian’s shoulder is turned off. Only natural light filters through.
The brain cannot invent things it has never seen.
“I was so worried,” Julian says, ending my overthinking. He forces a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Julian, what am I doing here?”
He grimaces as though his name, spoken a second time instead of any other pet names I’ve ever used for him, physically hurts him.
“You’re in my flat. To heal.”
His flat. Not his home. I don’t know why that makes any difference. I’ve failed. No amount of healing will erase that.
“I’m not dead.”
“No, baby. You’re not.”
He sounds genuinely happy. He won’t once he understands what kind of monster he let into his home.
That’s when it hits me. I press up onto the pillows to sit straighter, pulling at the stitches and grimacing through the sharp pain spreading from my shoulders and stomach into the rest of my limbs.
“Where’s Misha? What happened?” I ask, frazzled, looking around.
He’s not hiding in Julian’s flat but my body’s fight response doesn’t care. I look left and right, narrow my eyes at the closet. Panic rises. If I’m alive, my brother is, too, and I have to protect Julian. I slide my legs with tremendous effort from under the covers, trying to get out of bed.
Julian presses a tender but firm hand on my chest, avoiding the bullet wounds. Pain still flares under his touch and I hiss. The muscles are sore but it’s not the agony of being torn to shreds at close range.
“Calm down, baby. You shouldn’t get up, yet. We took four bullets out of your body not seventy hours ago.”
“I should be dead.”
“Maybe. But you’re alive. You’re alive and you’re here.” His voice pitches higher, urgency threading into the words. He takes one of my hands in both of his, clasping them with a tremble, restraint fraying. “You’re here. And your brother… He’s gone.”
My brows knit together. I shiver.
Julian takes it for discomfort and slides the comforter higher to my chest. It’s a nice weight on me.
He kneads the blankets and tucks me in. That isn’t nice.
Both the fact that I can feel that he’s bracing for something—maybe for the realisation to set in that he’s stuck with me now—and the sides of the blanket tucked to my sides.
That’s restricting my movements. My throat clogs.
I’m losing it. A fucking blanket makes me feel like I’m losing the only freedom I have.
“Stop. Stop,” I ask him, before I take hold of his hands. The contact sends jolts of electricity into my veins. I lift them immediately. I don’t deserve to touch him.
Something shifts on Julian’s face. He straightens and holds his head a little higher. The arrogant boy I met years ago has become a man who knows what he wants, and what needs to be done. I’m glad.
“I’m so sorry, Igor. I’m so sorry it came to this. We had no choice. But I’m not sorry that he’s gone. He hurt you. He hurt a lot of people. And I will never apologise for what we did to him.”
My lips part in confusion. It was always meant to come to this. Surely, he knows that. “I’m not asking you to apologise. ”
Weariness is a physical weight, like lead on my body. The padding of the mattress barely seems enough to cushion it as I lay back onto the pillows. I’m tired. So, so tired.
My brother is gone. And I’m alive.
“What happens now?” I whisper.
“Lana sent the Dobrevs to deal with what remains of Misha’s systems.”
“She’s not going?”
“No,” he answers curtly. He averts my gaze. “Giulia’s still in a coma. Lana won’t leave her side.”
My brother did that. His whole system finally came too close to the people I’ve always wanted to protect.
My friend, fiery Giulia, is in a coma. The memory of her body shaking before it hit the ground assaults me as the words register. A wave of self-disgust has me doubling over the side of the bed and retching on the floor.
It’s the first time my body allows itself to feel the hate. For myself. I should have done more. I could have done more. And instead of paying for my crimes, I’m laying in bed, with the man I love playing nurse.
My husband. The man I don’t deserve.
Julian rubs my back as I continue to empty my stomach.
There isn’t much inside it. Bile burns my throat, the convulsions in my stomach making me shiver until they finally recede.
Without a word, Julian goes to the en-suite and comes back with a warm washcloth, wiping my forehead and the sides of my mouth.
I want to push him away but all strength has abandoned me.
I’m a husk. A shell. And I deserve to be crushed rather than polished like a precious stone.
Julian cleans up my mess in silence.
Once he’s done, he settles into the love seat by the side of my bed and opens up a battered book. I can almost smell the dust from the pages from here.
The Little Prince.
My eyes close on their own, emotions riding my body until I’m shaking. I can’t take it. The mundane is too much to bear.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going to read for a bit, if you don’t mind. I want to be there if you need anything.”
“What I need is for you to leave.”
Hurt crosses his features but he doesn’t move.
“Baby, I can’t. I just got you back. I need…”
“I need space. I need you to leave.”
When he doesn’t move, I avert my gaze, looking at the window. The sky is a dark blue grey, just like it is before a storm over the harbour. I can’t see the rest of the city but I see the sky. And it matches my mood. “Please.”
Julian audibly swallows. “Alright. I’ll be back with dinner.”
“No.”
“You need your strength.”
“You don’t know what I need.”
On the side of my vision, his face drops like I’ve kicked him, but I don’t look back. Nothing good comes from loving a monster. I can’t let him down again, by showing him all my failings.
“I will be back with dinner. And you will fucking eat. We didn’t go through hell and back for you to waste away. I won’t allow it.”
I scoff.
“Scoff all you want, Igor Bartoli, but you’re my husband. You took my name. And I take care of what’s mine. I got you back, and I’m not letting you go. Get fucking used to it.”
His possessive energy fills the room. He whirls around and disappears.
The door closes softly, and I almost laugh because I know him so well I know he wants to slam the door.
He leaves with that declaration of ownership.
My battered heart and traitorous gut give little flutters.
I’m so unused to them I think I’m going to puke again. But I don’t.
My husband.
And he won’t let me go.
For his sake, he will have to.