Chapter Eighteen
Nikolai
It’s been three days since Lauren moved into my penthouse.
Three days since I saved her from that bastard who tried to choke her to death. Now she’s kneeling over in my bathroom, vomiting into the sink.
I lean in the doorway, watching. She was throwing up all night. I heard the sounds from my bedroom.
I catch her reflection in the mirror and feel a pang in my chest. She looks dreadful, all of the color gone from her face. Her hands, barely clutching the sink, shake like leaves. She can barely get a firm grip. Pieces of brown, disheveled hair are falling around her face.
I find myself wanting to gather up the strands and hold them back, but I already tried that yesterday and it didn’t work. She’s too independent, too used to doing everything alone.
I tilt my head, wondering how she turned out like that. It likely has something to do with her father. Lauren’s actions make it clear that she has spent her whole life learning to take care of herself, to survive on her own, rejecting help because she mistakes it for control.
Finally deciding to intervene, I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, wetting a washcloth. I approach the sink and gently press it to the nape of her neck to cool her down. As expected, she stiffens, but this time she doesn’t fight me off.
“I’m okay.”
Ignoring her defiance, I rub slow circles against her back. “I know you are, but you’re shaking.”
Her breathing is unsteady but she doesn’t pull back. I gather her hair into a ponytail and secure it back with the hair tie from around her wrist. Turning her around so that we’re face to face, I pat the washcloth over her forehead, cooling the area.
She doesn’t look into my eyes.
“Alright,” I say, tossing the washcloth back into the shower. “Bedtime for you.”
“No. It’s morning. I have things to—”
“You’re going to rest.”
She relaxes her shoulders, finally surrendering. “Fine.”
I guide her into the spare bedroom she’s been staying in, peeling back the covers as she gets settled. I tuck her in when her head hits the pillow, and then head to the door.
“Where are you going?” Her voice is croaky.
“To fetch you some water.”
“Oh. Sparkling, please.”
My mouth pulls into a smirk, returning a moment later to set it on the nightstand.
“Thanks,” she says, voice scratching against a dry throat. “You’re good at this.”
I shrug. “My mother was sick.”
Lauren frowns.
“Cancer,” I say, answering the question she was getting ready to ask. “She was already undergoing treatment when she got killed.”
My words are clipped. Blyad. I never talk about this. I don’t know why I thought it necessary to bring this up, but talking to her about it feels… right?
“I’m sorry,” Lauren says softly.
“Get some rest.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but instead just draws a breath. As I advance to the door, she speaks. “Niko… you were right.”
“About?”
“I can’t do this alone,” she says.
I pause in the doorway, frowning. Interesting. I never thought I’d hear this from her. Perhaps she’s finally starting to realize that I’m on her side.
I turn back around to see her looking up at me from the bed, her fingers curling over her stomach. We can keep this hidden for now between just us two, but a bump will be there soon. Nine months later, a baby.
Our child.
“I… need help. Your help.” says Lauren.
I open and close my mouth. Now isn’t the right time to say ‘I told you so.’ Nevertheless, it is interesting to hear that from her.
Did she really just say that?
That she needs my help?
“What do you need my help with?” is my response.
“Finding the person who killed my mother,” she says.
I take a few steps back towards the bed. “Already working on it.”
This shifts her expression. “Do you know who it was?”
“No. But I’ll find out. And when I do, I’ll take care of it.”
She looks at me unsteady, probably suspecting what ‘taking care’ means. She slowly nods. But with her eyelids starting to droop, I back away from her.
“Get some rest.”
For once, she doesn’t argue. She slips under the covers and curls up onto her side. Within seconds, her breathing evens out. I turn to head back towards the door, but then, I decide otherwise, dropping into the armchair to watch her sleep. She looks peaceful, her eyes shut softly.
I exhale a breath. I don’t know how to sleep soundlessly anymore. Maybe she doesn’t either. Is it too self-righteous of me to believe that the only reason she can sleep is because I’m in the room with her?
Maybe.
If she’s anything like me—and I know she is after we exchanged family dramas—I bet she sleeps with one eye open every night, on constant guard for danger.
I suck in a breath and continue to watch her. I have my suspicions about who murdered her mother, but it’s for her own good that I don’t tell her—I don’t want her doing anything stupid.
It’s either Aslanov himself or one of his fucking minions.
Then again, I could be wrong.
Sun streams in through the gaps in the curtains, indicating daylight, but like Lauren, I also feel drowsy.
I’ve been sleeping more fitfully than usual the past few nights with Lauren here.
It’s not the sound of her constant retching that keeps me awake.
It’s concern. I can’t bring myself to reach for the earplugs and drown out the sounds of her vomiting, not when Aslanov is looking for her.
But something about being in the same room as her takes the edge off. If anyone wants to try anything, I’ll know about it. And I’ll be dead before I let anything happen to her.
I press my hand to my temple and shut both of my eyes, finally welcoming sleep.
For the first time in a long time, I fall into a dreamless slumber.