Chapter 11 #5
Even though we haven't been at this very long, the exhaustion from having to keep up with everything is starting to wear on me.
I know he notices this when he places his hand on the small of my back.
I don't even know if he realizes what he's doing as he draws small circles with his thumb, soothing, and I wonder which one of us he is trying to calm.
"Get the doctor on the line," he snaps to Semyon.
"About that… Yana said he’s, um, traveling," Semyon says with a cringe that tells me he is very well aware of the fact that his brother is definitely the one who will murder the messenger, regardless of the message.
"Have you asked how long? How far?"
"Not sure."
Rafail blows out a breath. "Find out."
I bite my tongue, just about to tell him that maybe he should say "please" once in a while, but I remember that he tied me to his bed stand for giving him shit earlier, and I'm not quite sure I want to test him already.
"It doesn't have to be your doctor," I tell him with a shrug. "I just want to talk to a doctor about what I can expect and what's happened."
"I want someone to understand the history and who they're dealing with," my new husband says, his eyes locking onto mine.
Semyon talks on his phone while Zoya and Rodion do the dishes. Glad to know that Rafail is an equal-opportunity employer, and that the men do shit right along with the women. But I guess that makes sense when you had to be both mother and father for many years.
A sharp knock at the door catches our attention.
I stiffen when I realize that everyone—and I do mean everyone, even little Zoya—snaps to attention.
Rodion’s hand is at his waist as if ready to pull a gun, and Semyon’s knees are slightly bent.
Rafail has gone as still as a statue and already holds a gun in his hand.
Where did that even come from? Jesus.
Once again, that flicker of familiarity ignites in me. Déjà vu, you could even call it. They've been here before, and so have I. Then why are none of them familiar?
I glance down at my hands, the sensation of cold, hard steel lingering as I remember… I know how to hold a gun. My fingers twitch involuntarily, and the question rises in my mind: Do I know how to use it?
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my mind is already running through a series of instinctive motions as if coldly calculating how to survive.
I belong here. I’m not a fish out of water like I thought. I’m missing parts of the puzzle, but this life—this life is not unfamiliar to me.
My gaze flicks to the wooden rolling pin hanging on the metal rack by the wall.
It’ll do. I could grip it tightly, let its weight settle in my hand, then swing it hard—I’d aim for the head or temple, and if they got too close, I could drive the handle into a pair of ribs and feel the crack of bone.
If that didn’t drop them, I’d use my good knee—hard and fast—to the groin.
That would give me an opening. Then, a swift elbow to the jaw, a strike at the part of the throat, and find a way out.
Flashes of muscle memory flood my mind. My pulse races.
Twisting, countering, neutralizing. The shadow of a figure in my mind was my trainer, but I can’t see her face.
A woman’s voice, sharp and commanding. Her name is out of reach, but her lessons remain.
She taught me how to fight. How to survive.
Her voice, strong and distinctive but feminine, guides my instincts even now.
Was she a sister?
Always go for the joints. Knees can buckle. Elbows can be broken. Eyes can be blinded.
This all flashes in seconds before someone shouts, "Don't shoot," an older male voice says. "It's just me."
Rafail growls and puts his gun away but still looks wary. The rest of them don't look so eager to do so. Two steps, and Rafail’s at the doorknob, turning it.
"How many times have I told you to use the front door like civilized people?" Rafail growls. He blocks the door so I don’t see who it is until he steps aside.
An older man, with the slightest resemblance to Rafail, stands in the doorway.
He has salt and pepper in his hair, slicked back from his forehead, revealing tanned, well-worn skin that's cracked like leather, calculating eyes, and a cruel mouth that tells me he is very familiar with what these men do.
Next to him stands a blonde woman with bright-red lipstick and false eyelashes that border on wings, wearing a red cardigan cinched at the waist with a gold belt, paired with dark-blue jeans and a pair of heels.
She stares at me, her eyes sweeping over me in a slow, deliberate, uncomfortable once-over, scrutiny the other two women spared me from.
The frown that follows is unmistakable when she takes in my rumpled clothing and bare face—disapproval, maybe even something stronger.
Like I don’t measure up. I feel smaller under her perusal. Exposed.
I stand taller and meet her gaze. I may not remember who I was, but I know who I am now, and I will not wilt under the scrutiny of anyone.
"Is this the new bride?" she asks, snapping her gum.
Rafail’s jaw clenches. "Yes. This is Anissa. Anissa, meet my Uncle Eduard and his wife, Irma.” He turns to Eduard before I can respond. "Listen, I need a lead on a doctor.”
Eduard nods, helping himself to a cup of coffee. "I've got you one, but you'll have to go there in person. He doesn't do house calls."
"Did you make these?" Their aunt pokes at a container of last night’s cookies.
"Zoya did, but easy, they’re loaded with sugar and fat,” Yana says, her eyes thin slits, hands on her narrow hips.
They don't like this blonde. I'm not surprised.
"That's fine," I say to the uncle just as Rafail shakes his head and says, "No way."
We glare at each other. In the presence of witnesses, maybe I can push my luck.
"I'd like to go, please," I say, more friendly this time.
"No. Not if it involves leaving the house.” He looks at his uncle. “Give me his number. I’ll convince him to come.”
Something tells me he definitely could.
“This particular doctor takes a neutral position on all things related to…” he glances at me, “our world. It’s likely in our best interest to keep it that way.”
Rafail scowls before he turns to Semyon. “Find the doctor on vacation.”
“Tried, brother. He has no reception. Can’t reach him.” Rafail’s eyes darken, and his lips thin. Oh, for the love of—
I throw my hands up in the air. "Rafail, you told me I would get some answers. You promised."
Narrowing his eyes at me, he gives me a silent warning. I know what he said, and I heard him, but dammit, I want answers.
And how bad can disobeying him really be?
"I promised to get answers, but I never said that doing so would actually be an opportunity for you to get injured again.”
“You know,” Semyon says. "Might be a good idea for you to go there.
" He thoughtfully strokes his chin. "You'd be right in the vicinity of the docks, where the shipment’s set to arrive tonight. Not to mention, where Popov’s men were last seen snooping around. You could kill two birds with one stone.”
Rafail draws a breath through his nose and clenches his teeth as he exhales. He absolutely doesn't like the position he's in.