ALINA
Honestly,Magda may be part witch.
She fed me homemade chicken soup she made in her digital pressure cooker last night. With homemade black bread and butter, she made me eat two bowls and sent me to bed with some toasted rice tea.
Everything tasted soothing and gentle, so after a good night’s sleep—for once—I should be perky and well and feeling good.
But my stomach rocks when I wake, like I’ve had no sleep and have been out drinking and like I’m moments away before the hangover hits in earnest.
I groan and turn over. Albert trots up from warming my feet to snuggle against my chest and stomach like he’s my own personal living hot water bottle.
“Hey, Albert,” I whisper into his fur, “you know how to make someone feel better.”
He whines out what sounds like words, and I smile.
But the peace doesn’t last long. My phone starts to buzz on the side table and draws me completely into the land of awake, and the sounds of the house filter in.
“Hey,” I murmur to Ilya after I press answer.
He doesn’t preamble. “Did you make your appointment?”
“Not yet.” I groan. “I just woke.”
“It’s nine, and I figured you hadn’t yet, so I did.”
“You do know I have a doctor?”
“And you do know I have all your emergency and medical contacts listed, right?” he says in Russian. “Your appointment’s in an hour and a half, so you’ll have enough time to eat and get ready.”
The thought of food turns my stomach. “I’m not going with the bodyguard.”
“He’ll follow. But Gus will drive you. He’s waiting downstairs.”
I frown. “I have a car?—”
“Let me play by the rules I know Demyan wants you to play by. In this, since I’m involved, I’ll do what he’d do, okay?”
“Are you trying to win points with my brother?” I ask, half teasing, because I’m sure he is.
I’m just as sure Demyan will still find something to pick apart. Because that’s just the mood Demyan’s in.
He laughs, but I can hear the serious note in it that’s tinged with strain. “I’m trying to win points withyou. He’s a distant second.”
“Okay,” I say. “I believe you.”
“No, you don’t. But that’s fine by me,malyshka. The points from you are worth everything.”
“Do they win you a prize?”
“You,” he says softly. “I’m hoping they win me the prize of you.”
Everything in me scorches red-hot, and my toes clench tight. Me. He sees me as a prize.
There are women who’d see that as wrong, and I would too, if it weren’t Ilya.
I’m no monetary prize, nor one of bartering. He means I’m everything to him. And that…
A wave of pleasure passes through me, momentarily cancelling out the slight nausea.
