Chapter 22 #2
Christ, was she on a hunger strike? Like a grown woman?
The elevator arrived.
I pushed through the door.
The apartment was unnaturally quiet.
Porter wasn't in the living room—he should've been on watch.
I walked deeper inside, passed through the living room.
The couch cushions were crooked. An empty water glass sat on the coffee table.
Down the hall.
The guest room door was still closed.
I stopped outside, about to knock.
Thud.
A dull sound from inside.
Something heavy hitting the floor. Followed by a muffled, pained groan.
My brain went blank.
Reflex. My hand reached for my waist—no gun.
Fuck. I didn't bring it today.
No time to think.
I stepped back, lifted my leg, and slammed my foot into the door lock.
Once.
The door frame shrieked.
Twice.
The lock shattered.
I burst inside.
She was on the carpet.
Lying on her side, arms wrapped around her stomach, face white as death, forehead drenched in cold sweat, lips purple, hair soaked and plastered to her face.
Time stopped.
All the calm, all the control, everything that made me the Pakhan—shattered into dust.
My legs went weak.
For the first time in forty years, my legs went weak from fear.
But I didn't fall.
Muscle memory moved faster than thought. I rushed to her side, dropped to my knees, and reached for her.
"Ella—"
My hand cupped her shoulder, the other cradled the back of her neck, lifting her off the floor.
Her body felt terrifyingly light in my arms.
"Look at me." My voice shook, but I forced it steady, made every word land clearly. "Ella, open your eyes."
Her eyes slowly cracked open.
Unfocused. Dazed.
"Sergei..."
Her voice was thin as smoke.
"I'm here." I held her tighter. "I'm right here. Where does it hurt?"
"My stomach..." Her hands still clutched her abdomen, face twisted in pain. "It hurts."
"I'm calling a doctor right now!"
"No..." She weakly grabbed my sleeve, her grip so faint I barely felt it. "Don't call a doctor, I don't want strangers..."
"Ella, you need—"
"Please." Tears slid from the corners of her eyes. "I'm just tired, it's just my stomach, please, Sergei."
My throat tightened.
Damn it.
"Okay," I said. "No doctor."
I lifted her, stood, and carried her toward the bed.
She curled into my chest like a wounded animal.
I laid her on the bed, movements gentle, pulled the covers over her.
"Don't move," I said. "I'm getting medicine."
I turned and walked out of the room.
"Porter."
He was already waiting in the hall, face full of worry.
"Medicine kit. Top shelf of the master bedroom closet." My tone returned to its usual calm. "Bring it."
"Yes!"
He sprinted toward the master bedroom.
I turned back into the guest bathroom, ran hot water, soaked a towel, wrung it half-dry.
Porter brought the medicine kit. I took it, rummaged through for stomach medicine.
Walked back to the bed.
She was still curled up, face still deathly pale.
"Sit up," I said. "Take the medicine."
"I..." Her voice was so weak. "I can't sit up..."
I sat on the edge of the bed, slid one arm around her shoulders, and pulled her up to lean against my chest.
"Open your mouth."
She obeyed.
I placed the pill on her tongue, then reached for the water glass on the nightstand, brought it to her lips.
"Slow."
She took a few sips, swallowed the pill.
I set the glass down, picked up the damp towel, gently wiped the cold sweat from her forehead.
She kept her eyes closed, brow still furrowed.
"Still hurting?" I asked.
"A little better." She said.
"When did it start?"
"This afternoon." She said. "It wasn't bad at first. I thought I could just push through, but then, it got worse and worse."
"Why didn't you call me?"
She went silent.
"Ella." I used the towel to wipe the sweat from her cheek. "Why didn't you call me?"
"Because I thought—" Her voice got even quieter. "I thought you didn't want to deal with me anymore."
My hand stopped.
"You haven't eaten anything for three days, tortured yourself like this, because you thought I didn't want to deal with you?"
"Didn't you slam the door and walk out?" There was hurt in her voice. "Didn't you say 'come find me when you've figured it out'?"
I looked at her.
"That didn't mean I didn't care."
"But—"
"But nothing." I cut her off, set the towel on the nightstand. "Ella, listen carefully. No matter what's between us, no matter how much you hate me, if you're not feeling well, you have to tell me. Understand?"
She looked at me. Tears spilled over again.
"I don't hate you." Her voice rose slightly, but immediately she winced from the pain. "I never hated you."
"Shh." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Don't get worked up. Rest first."
"But we—"
"Everything else tomorrow." My tone left no room for argument. "Right now you need to sleep."
She looked at me. Those blue-green eyes still swimming with tears.
"Will you stay here?" She asked, voice small.
I was silent for a second.
"You want me to?"
She nodded.
"Then I will."
I sat down in the chair beside the bed, leaned back.
She watched me, something complicated in her gaze.
"Sergei. I'm sorry."
I looked up at her.
"What are you apologizing for?"
"For saying those things." She said. "I know you're not like Dmitri. I was just—I was just so scared."
I looked at her for a long time.
"You weren't wrong." I finally said. "I am controlling you."
She froze.
"The surveillance, restricting your freedom, making decisions for you." My tone was calm, like stating facts. "That's all control."
"But—"
"But I won't change." I cut her off, held her eyes. "Ella, this is the only way I know how to protect someone. If you can't accept that, I understand. But I won't apologize."
She bit her lip. Tears started flowing again.
"Then we—"
"Sleep first," I said. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."
She looked at me, then finally nodded. She closed her eyes. Maybe because she'd slept so little the past three days, her breathing evened out quickly.
I leaned to the side, watching her.
Moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains and fell across her scattered auburn hair.
Asleep, the lines of her face finally relaxed a little.
But she was still too thin.
Three days. She'd tortured herself like this.
And I was outside, telling myself she needed space, telling myself distance was necessary.
Damn it.
I sat up at the edge of the bed, looked at her face.
Raised my hand. This time I didn't stop it mid-air.
I brushed the strand of hair stuck to her face aside. Gentle.
Her skin was cool.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice so low only I could hear it. "I'm sorry I left you alone these three days."
She didn't wake.
Just furrowed her brow slightly in her sleep, then smoothed out again.
My hand hovered above her cheek. In the end, I didn't touch her.