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Luka’s confusion swelled. The woman was mad if she thought he would ever touch her.
She took his silence as agreement, if the sharp nod she gave him meant anything. “Your fever hasn’t broken.” Her hand found the bottle of pain relievers from the night before. The few remaining pills inside clacked together as she shook it slightly.
Luka held out his hands. She hesitated, but tossed the bottle to him.
His head was pounding. The sweat that covered his body made him shiver, even though he felt much too warm.
Alina picked up the towel from before. “I put ointment on it. I was trying to apply more to those cuts on your back.”
Cuts made Luka think of a knife, but that wasn’t how Ivankov preferred to punish him. “It heals.” Even without ointment, the pain from the whipping would fade. It always did.
Her lips pressed together. Willow had often looked at him just like that, but her green eyes hadn’t been filled with anything. When Alina looked at her feet, he struggled to read what was in her eyes. Maybe it was pity.
She was wasting her time if she pitied him.
Luka scanned the room for his shirt. If the sun was streaming in, he needed to move. He spotted it folded on top of the dresser and stood.
“Oh, hang on,” Alina murmured, passing him to enter the bathroom.
Luka forced his body not to tense. He was careful as he pulled the undershirt on. It had seen better days.
Alina returned, holding out the black, long-sleeved shirt he’d covered her with when he’d first found her. “I washed it. It’s mostly dry now.”
He took it from her, the last of the tingling along his forearms fading as they were covered. His hand nudged his pocket as he released the hem. The slight rattle was as distracting as it had been when he’d murdered his target the night before. He’d nearly been shot himself. That hadn’t happened in forever, but then he’d already had a fever.
“Thank you.”
His head shot up to stare at Alina directly.
She stared steadily back, not looking away. “Really. You’ve done a lot for me. So thank you.”
Luka nodded, his gaze dropping. His mouth felt too dry to thank her in return. Even swallowing didn’t help.
“I’m glad I got a chance to say that,” she said, and the relief was there in her voice. She must have thought they’d never see each other again. That meant she planned to move on.
Luka’s hand dropped to his pocket, and he dragged out the items he’d stolen the day before. He crossed to her, holding the pencils and sharpener out until she opened her hands. He dropped the items into them. The pencils hadn’t held up well, and regret filled him as he looked at what had become broken pieces of wood and lead.
“These are—”
He didn’t stick around to hear any more. His body was hurt, but he’d learned to move fast. Soon he was out of the house, though he didn’t rush away. Instead, he slinked down the side alley until he found the bedroom window.
Alina continued to stand there, her hands closed over the pack of broken pencils as if she wouldn’t let go. Luka still couldn’t read the expression on her face, but she wasn’t crying.
And then she was smiling. It was a small one, but it was real, and he was content to remember her that way.
Chapter 8
Alina knew she wanted to live. She just didn’t fully understand how to do that. It wasn’t that her skills were inept. She had no skills at all. Nothing but her artistic streak.
A day passed. Then another. At first she was content to use the pencils on a corner of the bedroom wall, but then a corner turned into more. It started with her own face, and then she’d drawn Luka’s. Once she’d allowed herself to draw him, the pencil had hardly stopped. She still hadn’t gotten his expression quite right.
Staying in a mafia house was the worst kind of self-sabotage, but it was better than having no roof over her head. The woman who had beaten her and emptied her bank account had told her horror stories about life on the streets. Believing her had kept Alina trapped once before.
Luka had left no more money, and he hadn’t returned. Worry over how unwell he’d been filled her mind, but that was another delaying tactic.
The multigrain bars had run out, even though she rationed the box of four over nearly as many days.
Alina forced herself to leave the walls that felt so safe. They weren’t. She couldn’t properly lock up behind herself or take off her shoes to sleep, always needing to be ready to run if someone else showed up. Anyone besides Luka.
