‘‘But it’s possible to change. It’s not easy. It’s never clean. But it’s possible. You’re not him. You’re not your father. You get to choose who you are.’’
I swallow an awful amount of regret down.
I look at him fully now. And for the first time, there’s no challenge, no hatred in either of us.
I’m touched, deeper than I know how to show.
And for the first time in a long, long time...
I don’t feel entirely alone.
Sawyer shifts, pulling a small pocket knife from his back pocket. He flips it open with a soft click and kneels down beside me.
Wordlessly, he slices through the thick velcro restraints binding my wrists, the material giving way with a ripping sound that feels too loud in the heavy silence.
My hands fall free, stinging, bruised, but mine again.
Sawyer stands and extends his hand, steady, open.
‘‘Let’s start over,’’ he says.
Slowly, I reach out and take it.
Our hands clasp, rough against rough, broken against broken. A soldier’s grip.
A survivor’s grip.
And something in my chest, something rusted and bitter, shifts.
‘‘Let’s start over.’’
Chapter 60
Mine, No Matter the Blood
Isabella
When I step back inside the clinic, freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes, I blink twice, not sure I’m seeing right.
Aslanov and Sawyer are sitting next to each other, deep in conversation. What really grabs my attention, though, is that Aslanov isn’t restrained anymore. He’s just... sitting there, free. Karpov, Ada, and Dominik are scattered around them, all quietly listening.
As I step through the doorway, every head in the room turns toward me. I feel like some exotic animal stepping into a cage, like they don’t know whether to approach or run.
Aslanov’s eyes find mine instantly. He rises to his feet, a little unsteady, but determined. His body is still a wreck, covered in bandages and faded bruises, the slow, shuffling movements betraying the damage he’s healing from. But his vitals have stabilized enough that we’d taken him off constant monitoring. No more IVs snaking into his arms. No more machines tracking every breath.
His recovery is still fragile, still tentative. He has to take his medications daily now: Olanzapine to keep the psychosis at bay, Gabapentin to help with the tremors and restless, endless insomnia that had haunted his nights. We’d weaned him offClonazepam since today, since he is stable enough; no one wanted him dependent on anything that could cloud his mind or slow his progress.
Aslanov walks toward me with a kind of quiet gravity, his eyes never leaving mine. Even injured and weak, he’s still taller than me by a good margin. I tilt my head back to look up at him, the motion stretching my neck as I take in the mess of him, and the strange calm in his expression.
‘‘What happened here?’’ I ask, my voice low and cautious. ‘‘Are you guys besties now?’’
I arch my neck a little further, trying to read his face, the way his mouth twitches as if he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words yet.
My chest tightens. Something’s wrong.
Something’s really wrong.
“I have to talk to you,” Aslanov says, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “I have to tell you something.”
