Fractured Souls - Page 15

She sniffs and climbs back onto my lap. Again her limbs wrap around me, and she buries her face in the crook of my neck. Barely audible murmurs escape her lips, and I tilt my head to the side to hear her better. Once she’s done, I stare at the far bedroom wall for a long time, thinking about what she just asked of me.

If Roman finds out, it won’t end well. We’ve been maintaining a good relationship with the Cosa Nostra, but if I let her stay, it may mean war. And if Asya’s brother finds out, he will probably kill me.

I inhale and nod. “Okay, mishka. You can stay.”

Chapter 3

“Is marmalade okay?” Pasha asks and places the jar on the counter.

I grip the hem of his T-shirt harder as he turns to face me.

“I don’t have anything else here, but I’ll run to the store later and buy more food. I rarely eat at home. We’ll order some clothes for you, too.”

I tilt my head up and find him watching me. “Thank you.”

I’m wearing another of his T-shirts with nothing underneath. No panties. No bra, either. It feels strange.

When I woke up this morning, I had a fever again. Pasha wrapped me in a blanket and pulled me against his chest. We lay in his bed for what felt like hours until my body finally stopped shaking. He carried me into the bathroom and stayed there while I did my business and took a shower. After I brushed my teeth, he wrapped me in a fluffy towel and led me back to bed, where I waited with my eyes glued to the bathroom door while he had a shower.

“Do you want coffee?”

I look at the coffee machine, feeling like the most pathetic being on earth. “I don’t know.”

Pasha’s palm gently presses against my back, moving up and down in a soothing motion. I take a deep breath and look up to find him watching me. There is no reluctance in his eyes. No reproach. And no pity.

“Did you drink coffee before?”

“No,” I whisper.

“How about tea? I have chamomile, I think.” He opens the cupboard, takes out a metal container and places it in front of me.

I just stare at it.

He lifts my chin with his finger. “Did you like drinking tea, Asya?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s assume you still do.” He smiles, and it’s so beautiful. “What did you like to eat for breakfast before?”

“Cereal with raisins,” I say. “Sometimes, I’d have some with chocolate chunks instead.”

“Then I’ll buy a few of those. How about other food? What were your favorite dishes? Were you allergic to anything?”

I sniff, trying to stifle the urge to cry. He’s asking the questions in a way that makes it easier for me to answer. He’s not asking me to pick, which would raise my anxiety, but rather asking me about facts.

“I never liked broccoli or green peas. Everything else was okay with me,” I say. “No food allergies.”

“Did you prefer ordering takeout or cooking for yourself?”

“I liked cooking.”

He nods. “Make me a list of ingredients, and I’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow. We’ll order something to eat today, but tomorrow, you can prepare one of your dishes.”

I bite my lower lip. That would require picking one of many.

“How about lasagna for tomorrow? I don’t think I’ve ever tried one. Did you like making lasagna?”

The weight pressing on my chest dissipates. I nod.