“Actually, you seem to have a dog in this fight. Remember that Russian kid from the night we stayed at the cabin?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. Of course I remembered him. He haunted me in my dreams. The liquid fear in his eyes. The way he shook and begged for his life. The pain Sam had inflicted on him when he shot his arm.
“Well, he is right here with me, suffering from a chest wound. Shallow, I think. Things went a little sideways with the Russians, and he got caught in the middle of it.” Sam delivered the information blandly, like he was reading me food options from a menu.
“Bring him over,” I ordered.
“We’re just pulling up in front of your clinic,” he said and hung up.
I prepared the examination table for the new patient as I mulled over how odd Sam was. He’d promised he would court me on Christmas, and I suppose he did, in his own way. He sent me flowers yesterday with a simple unsigned note bearing his name, and a piece of jewelry, I suppose as a late Christmas gift.
But he didn’t cower or beg. Didn’t come knocking on my door.
He wasn’t exactly chasing me. More like speed-walking while taking frequent water breaks. He still had a long way to go. But he was still in training.
A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, finding Sam and the Russian kid leaning against the gigantic man I hated to love.
I slanted my head toward my office. Sam followed me, dragging the tall, scrawny boy along. I tried to ignore the acute beauty of my favorite monster. How tall and strong and corded with muscles he was. The deep tan of his skin and those full-moon eyes that always looked tranquil and cold, like a crisp December night. There was something else about him I found attractive today, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Something had changed, even if it was subtle.
Sam unloaded the gangly kid onto the examination table, and I took scissors to the boy’s shirt and started cutting it off of his chest.
“What’s your name?” I smiled at the boy.
“Ruslan,” he breathed, wincing as he spoke, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Ruslan Kozlov.”
“How old are you, Ruslan Kozlov?”
“Fourteen.” His teeth chattered, and a few acne zits were gushing blood, probably from the stress. He was as pale as snow, and I knew he needed a blood transfusion fast.
“Tell me about the wound,” I murmured, keeping calm as I put on latex gloves.
He did. It was one of Sam’s soldiers who had shot him in Bratva territory—or what used to be their territory before Sam butted in. Ruslan was running errands for Vasily Mikhailov, whom I gathered was the local underboss. Sam came in with his entourage to threaten Vasily, and things got out of control.
“So why didn’t Vasily get you medical care?” I frowned. “You are his soldier, not Sam’s.”
The boy smiled. “Yeah. Mikhailov is not like Brennan. He doesn’t care about his soldiers. He is a real monster.”
Something warm flooded my chest. I tried telling myself it meant nothing.
Luckily, Ruslan knew his blood type, so I was able to call a friend of mine from med school who worked at the hospital and sometimes—on the rare occasion I asked him—provided me with blood units for transfusion. I sent Sam to pick it up with a cooler I had stashed in the clinic while I stayed and tended to Ruslan.
When Sam came back with the blood donation, he wanted to hang around in the room, but I barked at him to leave.
After I took care of Ruslan’s wound, I put him on sedatives and took off my gloves, joining Sam in the waiting room. He was sitting on the couch, messing with his phone and hair at the same time. He stood up alertly the minute I appeared.
“He’ll be fine.” I tried smoothing my hair into something that resembled a ponytail. “I’m glad you brought him in, though.”
He stared at me quietly, like he was looking at me for the first time. The heat flooding my cheeks was unbearable.
“Move in with me,” he said suddenly.
“What?” My breath caught in my throat. “What are you talking about? We haven’t even gone on a date yet.”
“A date?” He spat out the word like it was dirty. “We don’t need to go on dates. We’ve known each other since before you were allowed to vote. I’m picking up from where we left off after your little cabin stint, Aisling. I’m not starting from scratch.”
“You’re starting from wherever I want you to start or you are not starting at all,” I announced, giving him the stink eye. “And I can’t move in with you.”
“Why?” he demanded. “You want to move out. And you should. You are kissing thirty, Nix. Twenty-seven is no spring chicken. And your parents don’t need a babysitter anymore. They’re sorting their shit out, like they should have done three decades ago. Your mother is going to therapy. Your brothers told me. You’re welcome for that little push, by the way.”