25. Stefi
25
STEFI
I wake up with a start. I’m still in the car, but we’ve stopped moving, and it’s pitch-black outside.
“Where are we?”
“Outside an abandoned farmhouse,” he says. “A few kilometers outside Zielona Gora. How’s the leg?”
I flex my ankle experimentally, and pain shoots up my thigh. “It’s not great,” I admit.
I start to open the passenger door, and Joao growls in his throat. I bite back my smile. “Are you communicating in growls and grunts now?”
“When you do dumb shit, yes. Your ankle could be broken. Stay where you are; I’ll carry you inside.”
He comes around the passenger side, opens the door, and hoists me into his arms. “You were out like a light,” he says. “I pulled up and went to check out the farmhouse, and you slept through it all. You must have been exhausted.”
I wasn’t tired; I felt safe. After years of constantly looking over my shoulder for any hint of Bach or his bounty hunters, it’s not a feeling I take for granted.
“How do you know it’s abandoned? What if the people who live there are just away on vacation or something?”
“There’s a giant hole in the roof, the upstairs bedroom has a tree sticking through it, and there are mouse droppings everywhere.” He takes in my look of horror, and his lips twitch. “Don’t worry, I found a broom and swept out a room.” He grins. “Your palace awaits, my lady.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
Bantering with him feels slightly unreal. It’s been less than two weeks since I found out that Joao is alive, and it still hasn’t fully sunk in.
Then there was today. Joao came to Warsaw to support me. He had a getaway car ready and waiting and a fake passport for me.
He lost his shit when Kawka pawed me. He called me his wife, told me I needed a reminder that I was married to him, and fucked me with the hilt of a knife until the world disappeared and only we were left.
That was only a few hours ago. Given everything that’s happened, our back and forth seems wrong somehow.
But right now, I can’t handle anything more serious than that.
The more time I spend with Joao, the more I realize that I need to do the right thing and tell him everything. He deserves the truth; he deserves to know what happened.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’m going to pretend like there aren’t eight lost years between us. Maybe that makes me a coward, but after all this time, Joao and I are together in the same mouse-dropping covered room.
I just want to savor it.
Joao carries me inside the farmhouse and sets me down on a blanket. I give it a dubious look. “Where did this come from? I draw the line at bedding soaked in mouse pee.”
“What a princess,” he teases. “We got lucky. The owner of the last car we stole was well-prepared for winter. Apart from the blanket, which only smells a little like wet dog, there are matches, bottles of water and some dried jerky. Even better, the farmhouse residents forgot to empty out their cellar before they left.” He holds up a dusty bottle. “Behold.”
“What is it?”
He pops the cork and takes an experimental sip. “Mead, I think.” He offers it to me. “Try some. It’s good.”
I take the bottle from him and give it a suspicious sniff. “Botulism, here we come,” I say dubiously.
He laughs. “Live a little, Stefi. You okay by yourself for a few minutes? I’m going to bring in some firewood.”
“You’re going to light a fire? Is that a good idea? What if someone sees the smoke?”
“There’s no one around,” he responds. “It’s dark for miles in every direction. And even if someone sees it, so what? They’ll just assume we’re squatters. We wouldn’t be the first—I swept up some empty food cans.” He gives the bottle in my hand a pointed look. “Are you going to drink it, or are you just going to keep smelling it suspiciously?”
He knows me a little too well. “Fine, I’ll drink it.” I take a small sip, and a tart yet sweet taste fills my mouth. Huh. It’s actually good. “It’s not bad,” I admit grudgingly.
“Finish the bottle.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Yes,” he says. “Once I get a fire going, I’m going to have to look at your ankle, and the alcohol will help with the pain.”
He’s not wrong about that. It’s an exceedingly dumb idea to use booze to numb pain, and yet every one of Bach’s assassins has done it more than once. He never gave us enough time to heal, and it was often the only way forward.
Ten minutes later, a cheery fire blazes in the fireplace. I lean against the wall and sip my mead, letting warmth wash over me. Joao bustles around, exploring the premises. “There’s no electricity or running water,” he announces. “But I found a well in the yard.” He hangs a steel pail on a hook over the fireplace. “Behold. Hot water.”
“My hero,” I say, and mean it. It’s one of those crisp, clear November nights, and the air is chilly. By some miracle, the glass panes in the room we’re in aren’t broken, but they’re not airtight either. I’ll take all the warmth I can get. And more importantly, hot water is going to be necessary to clean Joao’s wound.
“A compliment from my wife. Your leg must really be bothering you.” He drops to his knees in front of me and picks up my left leg with light fingers. As gentle as he’s being, I still wince as he conducts his examination.
“Well?” I ask when he’s done.
“Good news: it’s not broken. Bad news: it’s badly sprained. You need to keep your weight off the leg for a week.”
“A week?” I say, aghast. “We can’t be here for a week.” I look up at him. “You don’t have to stay with me. This is my mess, caused by my carelessness. I knew the shoes were too big, and I shouldn’t have forgotten to take them off before I started running.”
“You were distracted,” he responds with a smirk. “Who knew I had the ability to make you lose focus so completely? Obviously, this situation is my fault.” His hands tighten on my gown. “I hope you’re not attached to your dress,” he says, the only warning I get before he rips a strip off the hem to bind my ankle. He taps the bottle. “Drink up. Tomorrow morning, I’ll find some painkillers.”
I feel like such a wimp. It’s a sprained ankle, and I’m acting like someone put a bullet in my knee. As opposed to Joao, who literally got shot and is treating his wound with about as much concern as he would a mosquito bite.
“You’re going around with a sliced palm and a bleeding shoulder,” I murmur. “You should drink some of this wine, not give it all to me. My pain tolerance is embarrassing.”
“So what? We’re not the same person.” He kisses me on my forehead, soft and tender. “We make a good team, though. Nice shooting.”
“Thank you.” He finishes binding my ankle and starts to sit back, but I stop him. “Get me the hot water. I need to deal with your shoulder.”
“It’s fine.”
“Joao,” I say flatly. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“I’d forgotten how bossy you could be,” he complains.
He continues to grumble as I dress his wound and bind his shoulder, and he bitches as I tie a piece of silk around the cut on his palm. I welcome his complaining because I need the distraction. I’m an assassin, and I’m used to blood, but it’s entirely different when it belongs to Joao.
By the time I’m done, I’m feeling more than a little faint. My hands tremble as I wipe the last smear of blood from his skin, and the reality of what just happened crashes into me. This isn’t just another mission. This is Joao—his blood, his pain– and I’m all too aware that he could have died today, shot to death on a stairwell because he was helping me escape. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to throw up.
His palm looks worse than his shoulder. Every time he flexes his hand, the cut reopens. He needs stitches, but there’s no first-aid kit here and nothing I can use to sew the wound shut, so I clean it as best as I can and resolve to find medical supplies first thing in the morning.
We sit side by side in silence when I’m done, taking turns drinking from the bottle.
“Let’s make a toast,” Joao says finally. “Varek Zaworski, you twisted, evil bastard. May you burn in hell.”
His words take a while to sink in. Even when they do, I can hardly believe it. It’s finally done—after years of trying and failing to target him, Varek Zaworski is finally dead.
I take a long sip. “Rest in peace, Michaela,” I whisper. “Sorry it took so long to avenge your death.”
I start to shiver, tears filling my eyes and falling down my cheeks. It’s partly the delayed shock and partly the unexpected victory after so many years of futile effort. I try to turn my head so Joao can’t see me cry, but he notices.
“Come here,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me close. “Let go, Stefi. I’ve got you.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’ve got you,” he says again. “Everything is going to be okay.”
His comfort bursts the dam keeping my emotions bottled, and it all comes raging out. I sob harder. “I don’t even know why I’m weeping,” I hiccup, pressing my head into his uninjured shoulder. “This makes no sense. I’m not sad Zaworski’s dead. I’m happy I killed the bastard. So why am I crying?”
“This one’s personal.” He repositions me so I lean against him, my back to his chest, and wraps his arms around me. “Like you said, you’ve waited a very long time to avenge Michaela.”
I soak in the comfort of his touch, greedy like a sponge, and stare at the crackling fire, warmth flickering over me. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to help me tonight, but you did. I couldn’t have made it without you. You saved my life.” Without Joao’s help, I wouldn’t have even made it down the stairs.
“You don’t have to thank me, little fox.” I feel the smile in his voice. “And besides, you saved me first. Remember the fake nun?”
“You’ve repaid that favor many times over.”
“I don’t want to keep score, Stef.” He kisses my forehead, and then my neck. “You’re my wife. I’m always going to be there for you.”
We sit together in the quiet, watching the flames flicker in the fireplace. Gradually, my eyes start to close, and I’m too tired to fight it. Leaning on Joao’s shoulder, I let the darkness draw me under.