“So am I.”
She places her hand on my face again, touching the silver starting to show at my temples before trailing her fingertips along the lines at the corners of my eyes and mouth before brushing them over my lips, causing an electric jolt to run straight through me.
“Age is just a number.” Sonya shrugs and gives me that crooked smile I can’t seem to get enough of.
I should let go of Sonya, release her from the danger and darkness a life with me entails. But I can’t seem to do it. She’s too far under my skin, and the morphine is suppressing my iron will.
When I cup the back of her neck and bring her lips to meet mine, it’s the sweetest kiss yet. “I need you,” I murmur against her mouth, feeling her smile on my lips.
“I know, but I don’t think you’re up to it,” she jokes with another sweet smile.
I should correct her, tell her it’s more than desire, more than just her body. I want her entirely—heart, mind, body and soul—from now until forever.
But I don’t.
18
SONYA
Morning seeps in slow and gray through the curtains, doing nothing to warm the chill in my bones. It had been fully dark when I’d woken from the clutches of a dream. Now, I watch Matvei sleep.
If only I could sleep, too.But every time I close my eyes, I see blood blooming through his shirt, and I recall the way his body tensed against a pain he didn’t want me to see.
I gently touch his forehead, checking for fever. None. His breathing is even while he sleeps, but maybe I should have demanded he go to the hospital.
Matvei stirs before his eyes open. He looks confused when he realizes I’m watching him. I let the silence linger, unsure what to say. There’s a fragile truth between us now, stitched together by last night’s fear and this morning’s uneasy peace.
My fingers tighten around the quilt as uncertainty gnaws at me, each second stretching like a thread ready to snap. I reach out and brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, trying to anchor us both in the present before the world intrudes again.
Matvei’s hand reaches out, calloused fingers grazing my wrist before intertwining with mine. There’s a gentleness in the way he squeezes my hand, something new. The quiet stretches as dawn slowly raises its head outside the window.
“You really scared me last night.” The words slip out quietly.
Matvei’s brow furrows. I’m instantly annoyed, and not sure whether it’s the hormones or the circumstances. I sit up, glaring at him. “You came home from who-knows-where, at two in the morning, with a freaking bullet hole in your shoulder. Was I not supposed to be frightened?”
He sits up slowly, carefully, the quilt falling away from his bare chest, making it difficult to focus on his face.
“You may be used to this, Matvei, but I’m not. If I’m going to stay here, I’m not going to spend every night unable to sleep because I’m worried about where you are and if you’re okay. If you’re going to come home at all?—”
As the words tumble out, I recognize that this is all something a person in a relationship has every right to ask, but I’m not Matvei’s girlfriend or his wife.
“I’m not going to stay here and worry about you,” I finish, aware of the subject I’m dancing around.
“You have quite a lot of demands,” Matvei replies, his voice thick with sleep. He rubs his hand over his face, the stubble causing a rasping noise. His blue eyes find mine, and one corner of his mouth curls up. “You worry about me?”
My cheeks grow warm and I look away. “I have to use the restroom. Then I’m going to make the one cup of coffee I'mallowed because I have work to do, and someone woke me up at two this morning.”
I’m watching the coffee drip when a hand on my shoulder makes me jump. I turn around and notice Matvei’s face is still a bit pale, but his eyes are clear and focused. He’s wearing a fresh shirt and dark joggers, his face freshly shaven. I faintly smell the scent of his cologne.
One of the oddest things about staying with Matvei has been seeing him in casual clothes. I’d gotten used to him in a suit and it’s bizarre to see him looking so… normal.
“What are you doing?”
I shrug. “Making coffee.”
“I can see that.” He moves around me and leans against the counter, wincing slightly. I have to bite back the urge to ask if he’s okay. “The better question is, what are you thinking about?”
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sounds the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the percolating coffee. I know he's waiting for me to answer, but I don't know where to start.