54
IVAN
Yasha skids to a stop in the driveway. “Hold on, and I can get the doors for—”
But I’m already in motion.
I’ve been watching Cora every second of the drive, counting her breaths. Waiting for them to grow shallow, to stop coming altogether.
I can’t sit still for another second. There isn’t time to wait.
I fold her against my chest and run for the front doors. Per my orders, Dr. Popov is already here. He opens the front door as I mount the steps and ushers us inside.
“I have my things set up in the sitting room.” He starts to lead the way, but I brush past him.
Faster. Everyone needs to move faster.
Dr. Popov is nearing eighty. He’s been a Bratva doctor since well before I was born. One day, he’ll need to be replaced. But for today, he keeps pace with me just fine.
“Lay her on the couch.” He slides his stethoscope into his ears and lays a hand on my shoulder. “You can wait in the kitchen until I’m—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I growl.
I let her out of my sight once, and someone attacked her. Somehow, without me noticing, someone got to her.
I refuse to let it happen again.
The doctor stares at me, not in defiance, but in question. I’ve never overseen his work before. There’s never been a need to. I know he’ll always do his best to take care of any patient in front of him.
This is different.
Cora is different.
I jab a hand at her too-still body on the couch. “Examine her. Now.”
Dr. Popov jolts at the authority in my voice. He bends his already-hunched back over her and begins his examination.
Cora stirred a few times in the car. Her eyes would roll in my direction or her lips would form around nonsense sounds, almost like she was trying to speak to me. Once, I even thought I saw her smile. But she hasn’t so much as batted an eyelash in the last fifteen minutes.
She doesn’t look quite as waxy pale as she did when I found her on the floor of the bakery’s bathroom. The fluorescents in there were harsh, giving her a deathly pallor. But the near-permanent blush she usually sports is missing from her cheeks.
Dr. Popov presses against the pulse point in her neck and checks her blood pressure. He draws blood from the delicate blue vein on the inside of her arm.
Through all of it, Cora doesn’t move an inch.
It’s bizarre, watching him work on her when, in every conceivable way, she looks perfect. Her pointed chin is tucked against her chest. Long lashes brush the tops of her cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted, as if in exhale.
I have the sudden urge to lean down and kiss her. Like we might be living in a storybook and one kiss could awaken her.
But this is no fairytale. I’m no Prince Charming.
“You think she was drugged, correct?” Dr. Popov asks.
I nod. “It’s the only explanation. She was fine, but when I checked on her a few minutes later, she was on the floor.”
My fist clenches at my side. Hard enough I think my knuckles will burst through the skin. Rage boils inside of me until I’m sure I’ll breathe fire.
Prince Charming doesn’t seek vengeance.
Prince Charming doesn’t sit by the princess’s bedside and plot all the ways he will maim and torture the villain responsible.
In this fairytale, I’m no hero. I’m the monster.
And when I find out who is responsible for this, I will rain death on all of them.