Chapter 3
LEV
For ages, sleep and I have had a rough relationship. My bedroom is too silent, my mind often unable to settle, too distracted to doze off.
Some people count sheep; I count zeros and ones.
It’s why, more often than not, the futon in the basement of the Bratva mansion, where Anastasia and I moved in with Vanessa and Dimitri after her takeover, ends up becoming my bed.
The whirling from my servers and computers lulls me to sleep.
What would be noisy for others is soothing to me—white noise, technically, but not the annoying shit from machines specifically designed to make those sounds.
So, getting shot fucking sucks.
Not because of the obvious. No, it’s because I’m trapped in my bedroom, shoulder bandaged, medication caging me between consciousness and sleep. Worse: there are people consistently hovering, and I despise people in my space.
Even when conscious, my eyes heavy, only the droll of conversation in the background gives me something other than annoying silence to focus on.
Occasionally, it’s Anastasia. Sometimes, it’s Vanessa and another guy—Zeno, presumably.
Never Dimitri, but given recent events, he’s likely busy hunting his father.
Most often, there’s another voice. It’s an unrecognizable feminine lilt—angelic almost, though it’s unlikely an angel would come for someone like me. Her voice is soothing in ways no one else’s is with its musical chime, which is simply outlandish.
The drugs are clearly doing their job if I’m thinking like this. It’s the meds calming my mind, not her, I convince myself of.
Her paced breaths should irritate me because sleeping means she’s remaining in my space. Why didn’t Anastasia drag the angel away?
Perhaps the angel isn’t real. She’s in my imagination as a drug-induced hallucination.
Either way, it’s her breaths I rest to, counting each one to ensure they continue.
When cold, male hands press on the injury, the stinging yanks me from my medicated rest, undoing the effectiveness of those little pills that were shoved down my throat at some point.
Then, there’s another hand, one softer and tentative, while nails lightly scrape my forehead and into my hair. The hand flips, brushing my skin with the back of her fingers in a way meant to be soothing.
It’s working.
“He’ll be okay, right?” Worry tinges the angel’s tone. Worry over me? That’s new. So few people have ever cared enough to be concerned.
This is a concerning fact.
When the pain eases up enough, I wake again, but a weight on my body prevents my eyes opening. It’s okay, because the darkness acts as a soothing curtain.
Gentle shushing, followed by those hands again, is even more soothing.
Why is there someone here? Anastasia, remove them.
The nails glide against my skull, and sleep consumes me again.
Never mind, Ana.
The next time I come to, it’s for good.
The heaviness from earlier releases me from its drug-induced embrace, and I blink into the darkness, trying to piece everything together. Tenderness radiates from my shoulder, but that’s nothing new. My body feeling more rested than it’s been in the past month, however, is.
Bullet wounds, when not fatal, don’t usually keep me down this long. My body typically ignores its own healing requirements, because resting is impossible when my mind races. But something was different this time.
My gaze flicks to the window over my shoulder to garner an idea of the time. The sliver of crescent moon states being middle of the night. Whether or not it’s the same day remains to be seen.
My movement draws focus to something else—to my hand resting on the left side of my bed and to the chair pulled as close as possible, to the woman slumped in it, her face angled away and pillowed by her other arm.
A stream of dark hair blankets her, strands tickling my fingers from where hers rest atop mine.
Someone is touching me, someone uninvited. Someone is in my room when they shouldn’t be.
The panic is an instant claw while my brain catches up to what it last recalls—to the events that led me here. The wound was created by a bullet. A bullet I took in exchange for Serafina Mancini’s life.
And now, she’s here. In my room. At nighttime.
There’s no buzzing; no static in my mind. Next to her, it becomes the most alarming and instant fact. When my mind should be confused and distracted by another’s presence, it’s, for once, silent. Peaceful.
It’s her. Not the meds, though those are a definite possibility, but recalling how she held me in the vehicle, and every touch she soothed me with, it’s all her.
Strange…and disconcerting.
Maybe I’m broken. The bullet went straight through, but perhaps fragments remain, fucking with my senses.
Without moving, I twist towards the bedside table, searching for my phone to determine the exact time.
It was in my pocket when Anastasia and I arrived at the warehouse with backup for Vanessa’s unwise one-woman charge, but it’s now plugged in and resting on my nightstand. Presumably my sister’s doing.
With a tap to the blackened screen, it lights up, revealing the time.
2:54 a.m.
The movement accidentally wakes Serafina, who, with a low, feminine moan, lifts her head to focus on me.
Her eyes are a vibrant blue that may be the same as Vanessa and her father’s—their father’s—but is also entirely her own.
I find myself studying them in a manner atypical of me.
There’s a mischievous glint, masked by a curiosity and gentleness, as she studies me in return.
Vanessa’s eyes don’t make me feel like my mattress will suck me in, especially when they widen, and full lips curve in a gentle smile. But hers do. They return the panicked sensation clenching my chest—but not for reasons pertaining to her presence.
“You’re awake.” It’s the voice. My angel’s voice. The lilt that doesn’t annoy me like everyone else’s does.
Odd.
“Barely.” My voice scrapes, rough from sleep, and I cough.
“How do you feel?”
“Alive.” Thirsty.
Her eyes flick down to where her hand’s resting on mine, and she jerks back, light pink spotting her cheeks. “Sorry. You were twitching a lot, and touch seemed to help.”
It shouldn’t have. How does a person’s touch have any soothing capabilities? Medicine is all that can heal, not comfort. Science, straight and forward; nothing more, nothing less.
Still, when she should be scolded for comforting a stranger, I reassure her with, “It’s okay.”
And that might be the truth.
“It’s late. What are you doing in here?” Why are you in my room?
“Waiting for you to wake up. Do you need anything? Water?”
Despite being thirsty, I shake my head, because retrieving water means leaving, and when she goes, I won’t be able to further dissect why her presence is calming.
“Okay, um…” Strands of hair coast over her face as she quickly stands, inching the chair backwards.
“I’ll leave now that you’re awake. I stayed to thank you for saving my life.
” Intriguing blue eyes flick to the bandage on my shoulder, reminding me I’m shirtless in front of a woman nearly ten years younger than me and the half-sister to my Pakhan.
“You don’t know me, and you took the bullet, so… thanks.”
She’s thanking me.
Why the hell is she thanking me?
I don’t get thanked. That’s not who I am. I’m a weapon for the Bratva. A solider trained by my father. The network administrator, as deemed by Ursin. Even though Vanessa isn’t anything like her papa, my role’s long been determined—one I’ve come to enjoy and appreciate.
But never thanked. Not like this, anyway.
It’s usually a passing thanks from my sister or Vanessa or Dimitri, maybe one of the soldiers.
More like a fleeting moment of politeness.
Never with such sincerity, on an angel’s face who’s saying and doing all the wrong things. Wrong—because I’m unused to them.
“Don’t worry about it.” It’s a weak response but all I got. “Are you okay?” I rub my brow, unused to truly wondering about someone who isn’t my sister. But since Serafina is Vanessa’s newly discovered relation, and Vanessa is one of my best friends, it’s polite to ask…right?
“Because of you, sì. You shouldn’t be the one asking that.”
I tick my head to the side, trying to decipher her meaning. “You don’t want me to ask about your well-being?”
“I’m not the one lying injured in bed.”
“Right.”
She glances towards the window and back, rocking on her heels. “I should let your sister know you’re up. Though, she’s probably asleep. This whole house is, I think, considering it’s the middle of the night.” She huffs a stilted laugh. “If you don’t need anything, I’ll go.”
Don’t.
A thought as abrupt as my next action. An action I won’t understand until my death.
The hand she once held darts for hers, latching on to her pinky finger. Her nail painted a bright pink is oddly agreeable. She freezes, both of us staring at where I’m touching her.
“Stay.”
Wait—why?
“Unless someone pointed out a spare room, it’s too late to go wandering around searching.”
Except, the chair isn’t a suitable place to rest, and her having slept in it for hours already couldn’t have been comfortable. Since she’s been here instead of the others, it’s my fault she’s getting a shit sleep.
“The bed is big enough for both of us.”
Why am I talking?
I could direct her a spare room, which would get her out of here sooner so it can return to being untainted by her presence and the scent of…peaches? Peaches and vanilla. After growing up around Ana, feminine perfumes and creams burn my nose, but Serafina’s are pleasant.
Yet another curiosity.
At this point, I’ll make a list and write a computer script to figure them all out.
Red blossoms deeper on her cheeks, and I remove my hand, carefully inching my way from the centre of the king-sized bed towards the opposite side, leaving her as much space as physically possible.