And for the first time in eighteen months, I feel the slightest sense of comfort.
16
ADRIAN
Istand in the doorway to Elena's bedroom for the fourth time in the last hour, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath the blanket.
The light comes in through the curtains and across her face. Her skin is still too pale, but she's breathing, and that's all that matters right now.
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms tight over my chest, counting her breaths like a fucking lunatic.
Every time I do this, I tell myself I should walk away and let her rest without me looming over her, but I can't make myself do it.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her on the bathroom floor or curled into a ball on the couch, sweaty and shaking.
It's taken forty-eight hours for whatever poison those Russian fucks were pumping into her system to work its way out.
Two days since I forced my way into the bathroom, watching her body reject everything: food, water, sleep.
Forty-eight fucking hours of holding her hair back, of sitting beside her in the dark while she shook and cried and begged for it to stop.
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
And I couldn't do a goddamn thing except sit there and tell her it would be over soon.
I rub my face to wake myself up and feel the stubble on my jaw scratching against my palm.
I haven't really slept during all this, of course. Every time I tried, I'd jolt awake, certain I heard her crying or calling my name.
Instead, I've been pacing like a caged animal, checking the house, checking on her, anything to keep myself up and busy.
I shift my weight and try to crack my back. It's sore from the hours I spent slumped in the chair beside her bed last night.
Overall, I won't complain. Around three thirty or four this morning, she finally fell into a real sleep, and I'd stayed until sunrise before I forced myself to leave, to give her space, to let her rest without me hovering over her like some deranged fucking guard dog.
But that didn't last long. I'm here again, watching her, telling myself she's okay.
Elena stirs slightly, her head turning on the pillow, and I stand up straight, ready for whatever.
Her face scrunches for a second, then relaxes. The knot in my chest loosens just a fraction.
She's fine. She's fine.
I repeat those words in my head over and over, like if I say them enough times, I'll actually believe it, but I don't.
Because she's not fine. She's broken, and I wasn't there to stop it from happening.
The anger at myself overloads my mind, and I turn and walk down the hall.
I started another fire this morning, and I notice it's burned down to glowing embers.
I toss some more logs in and grab the poker and stab at them. Sparks fly up as the flames flare back to life.
I stare at the poker for a second and think what it would have been like to jam this right into Maxim's eye.
Would it have gone in easily?
I lean the poker against the brick fireplace and stare at the flames.