LUKA
“What,” Nina asks, “does she know?”
I look at her sitting in the hospital bed with a bandage hidden beneath her hair, my clothes in a paper bag on her lap, and that suspicious, exhausted expression on her face, and I understand immediately that I have chosen the wrong word.
Arrangement.
Of course that is the word she hears.
It makes us sound clinical. Temporary. Transactional. As if I had informed my mother that the secretary I’m sleeping with has been moved to my house for safekeeping under terms neither of us will discuss at dinner.
I say, “She knows you are staying at the house because your apartment is not safe.”
Nina’s eyes narrow. “That is not what you said.”
I say, “I used the wrong word.”
Nina says, “You used a very specific word.”
I come closer to the bed, slowly enough that she does not feel crowded, and keep my voice even because Mirov has already warned me that stress will worsen the headache, and I have no desire to be the reason she looks paler than she already does.
I say, “My mother knows you are important to me. She knows you will be staying at the house. She knows not to ask questions that make you uncomfortable.”
Nina studies me for several seconds. “Does she know we’re sleeping together?”
I don’t look away. “She suspects.”
Nina closes her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“She suspected before I said anything.”
Nina opens her eyes again. “That’s not better.”
I say, “With my mother, it’s unavoidable.”
Nina presses her fingertips lightly to her temple. “I have a concussion, my brother is missing, my apartment has been destroyed, and now I have to face your mother knowing I’m sleeping with you.”
“You don’t have to face anything today.”
Nina gives me a look. “Will she be at the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have to face her.”
I reach for the paper bag and set it beside her so she does not have to keep holding it. “She will not make it difficult.”
Nina narrows her eye at me. “You say that because you are her son.”
“I say that because she likes you.”
Nina looks doubtful. “She barely knows me.”
I think about my mother’s face when I told her Nina was being discharged to the house. I think about the way she went silent for one second, not because she disapproved, but because she understood exactly what I was not saying.
My mother has known me all my life. She knows when a woman is a passing dinner, a distraction, a lie I tell the world because the truth is inconvenient.
She knew Nina was none of those things before I did.
I say, “She knows enough.”
Nina says, “That is a dangerous sentence in your family.”
I almost smile. “Probably.”
Mirov returns before she can argue further, which is useful because Nina is tired enough to be stubborn without having the energy to win.
He reviews the discharge instructions again, mostly for my benefit, and Nina sits there with growing irritation while he tells me that she needs rest, low light, no stress, no screens for long periods, and absolutely no “strenuous activity,” a phrase he delivers while looking at me with open accusation.
I help her dress after Mirov leaves, not because she asks, because she does not ask for help with anything, but because the moment she stands, her balance shifts and the room tilts for her in a way she tries to hide.
She is wearing soft black trousers, a loose sweater my mother sent, and flat shoes that are practical enough to make Nina suspicious.
“Your mother chose these?”
“Yes.”
Nina looks down at herself. “They fit.”
I say, “She has an eye.”
Nina laughs. “That is terrifying.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me then, and there’s something in her face I’m not prepared for, a kind of tired gratitude she does not want to name. I don’t comment on it, because I’m learning, slowly, that some things survive better when I don’t put my hand around them immediately.
The drive to my house is quiet.
Nina sits beside me with her head against the seat, eyes closed, one hand resting near her phone.
She has called Misha twice more since leaving the hospital.
He has not answered. Every unanswered ring tightened something in her face until she finally stopped trying, not because she had given up, but because the effort hurt too much.
I want to find him before she has to call again.
I want many things tonight that I cannot produce with force alone, which is always when I become most dangerous.
At the gate, the guards open for us before the car fully stops. Nina opens her eyes as we enter the long drive, and I see her take in the stone pillars, the ironwork, the cameras, the lamps along the trees, the quiet scale of the house waiting at the end.
She’s been here before in blood and panic.
I hate that her first memory of my home is my mother’s face paling at the sight of her covered in my blood.
This time, I want it to feel different.
Not perfect. Nothing is perfect right now.
But safe.
When we reach the entrance, I get out and come around to her door. She gives me a look when I offer my hand, but she takes it anyway. Her fingers are warmer than they were at the hospital, and her grip is steadier, though she leans a little more of her weight on me than she would ever admit.
My mother is waiting in the front hall.
Yelena Kazan stands beneath the chandelier in a pale gray dress, silver-blonde hair pinned back, her expression calm but her eyes soft in a way I know will undo Nina more than pity would.
My mother says, “Nina, welcome home.”
Nina freezes beside me.
Home.
I close my eyes briefly.
My mother doesn’t miss it.
Nina says, “Thank you, Mrs. Kazan.”
My mother comes forward and takes both of Nina’s hands carefully, as if she has already been told about the bruising. “Yelena, please. You are recovering, and this house is quiet. If Luka becomes unbearable, you come to me.”
Nina glances at me. “That might happen quickly.”
My mother says, “I assumed.”
I say, “Both of you are enjoying this too much.”
My mother says, “You are very easy to enjoy at your expense.”
Nina’s mouth softens, and for a moment I think my mother has done more for her in thirty seconds than I managed in two days of sitting by a hospital bed.
Then Nina sways slightly.
I catch her before she can pretend she did not.
My mother’s face changes at once. “Enough talking. She needs her room.”
Her room. It’s already become that.
I lead Nina up the main staircase slowly, though she complains halfway that she is not made of glass.
My mother follows at a distance with Meredith’s efficiency and none of Meredith’s restraint, giving instructions to a housekeeper about tea, soup, fresh towels, low lighting, and no unnecessary noise in the east wing.
Nina’s room is the blue guest room overlooking the back gardens.
My mother chose it because it gets morning light but not too much, because it is far enough from the main staircase to be quiet, and because it has an attached sitting room where I can pretend I’m not standing guard outside her door.
The lamps are already dimmed.
Fresh flowers sit on the desk, not lilies. My mother remembered that too, apparently, because she is impossible in ways I both respect and dread.
There is a tray by the bed with water, medication, crackers, and a small bell Nina looks at with immediate offense.
Nina says, “I’m not ringing a bell.”
My mother says, “Then text. The bell is for emergencies.”
“If I ring a bell in this house, Luka will arrive with a gun.”
My mother says, “Then text me.”
Nina looks at her, then laughs softly, careful this time. “Okay.”
Yelena says, “Rest now. We will talk later, when your head does not feel like it has been used as a doorstop.”
Nina says, “That’s weirdly accurate.”
My mother smiles, kisses Nina gently on the cheek before Nina can decide whether to panic, and leaves the room.
The door closes softly behind her.
Nina stands near the bed, looking around.
I stay by the doorway.
The room is large but not cold. Blue walls, cream curtains, a writing desk near the window, shelves filled with books no guest has read in years, a fireplace that has been prepared but not lit because Mirov said too much warmth may worsen dizziness.
Someone has placed a folded blanket at the foot of the bed, and Nina runs her fingers over it as if she needs proof that the room is real.
I say, “Is it all right?”
She turns to me. “This room is bigger than my apartment.”
I purse my lips.“That is not an answer.”
Nina looks around again. “It’s beautiful.”
I hear the but without her saying it.
“What is wrong?”
Nina’s mouth tightens. “Nothing. I just don’t know how to be here.”
I understand that more than she thinks.
I come closer but stop before entering her space fully. “You don’t have to know today.”
Nina looks at the bed, the tray, the flowers, the neatly folded clothes my mother arranged in the wardrobe. “Your mother bought me pajamas.”
I shrug. “She buys things when she is worried.”
Nina says, “That explains the slippers.”
I look down. There are soft slippers beside the bed. “You may insult them after you wear them.”
“They look comfortable. I was simply making a comment.”
I feel the tension in my chest ease by a small amount.
She sits on the edge of the bed, slowly, one hand going to the back of her head when the movement pulls at the bruised spot. I step forward automatically, then stop when she lifts her other hand.
Nina says, “I’m okay.”
“You swayed on the stairs.”
“I was being dramatic.”
I shake my head. “Your concussion has terrible timing.”
Nina says, “It’s my brand.”
She manages to settle against the pillows with only a little help, though she does allow me to adjust the blanket over her legs. I do it carefully, tucking it around her without touching more than necessary, and the domesticity of the gesture hits me so unexpectedly that I go still.
She is in my bed. Not my bed, but a bed in my house.
Her phone on the table.
Her hair loose around her shoulders.
Her face pale but alive.