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“Arsen, you don’t need to do this.”
“You’re not used to being looked after, are you?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The way she stiffens when I flip up her dress and expose her hip says enough.
Her scar stands out, red and angry against her pale skin.
“Is it hurting right now?”
“If I lie still, no. If I move, breathe, or even think about moving or breathing, then it’s like someone is branding me with a hot poker. So, in short… kind of.”
I apply the warm compress to her upper thigh, passing it up and over one swath of skin, then the next, then the next, working my way up to her hip. Her lips part and her eyes roll back in her head.
“Okay,” she concedes after a long sigh. “That does feel good.”
“You didn’t need to wear those shoes.” I glare at the Ferragamos I tossed on the carpet. I’m going to burn them later—and I’m going to fucking enjoy doing it.
“I wanted to. They were pretty. I’ve never had shoes that nice before.”
“If that’s all it was, you should’ve told me. I could buy you the most expensive pair of orthopedic sneakers they make.” Her glare says she doesn’t like that idea as much as I wish she did. I hate seeing her in pain. Especially when it’s my fault. “You could have at least told me about your hip bothering you. I wouldn’thave kept you on your feet so long if I’d known it would cause a problem.”
She tries to take the compress from my hands. “I’ll handle it from here, Arsen. You can go now.”
Ignoring her, I soak the compress in the bowl of warm water and reapply it. She spends the first few minutes stubbornly pretending I’m annoying her with my tender care. Then her eyes start to get heavy.
Soon, they’re closed and she’s breathing softly.
I consider moving her upstairs, but I think better of it. This is the first time she’s looked comfortable all night.
Taking the bowl of water, I go back into the kitchen. But I stop short when the fridge door clicks shut and a woman emerges from behind it. She has a bright orange scarf wrapped around her neck and a ragged scar along the left side of her face. It runs from her eye to the corner of her mouth.
“You must be Laila’s mother. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“And you must be Arsen Adamov. I’ve heard almost nothing about you. Though not for lack of trying.”
“You have your daughter’s directness.”
And her eyes,I note. As Marie steps into the light, her bright blue gaze studies me curiously.
“I just came to get myself a drink.” She tries to lift her glass of milk, but she wobbles slightly, gripping the edge of the island. Without thinking, I take her arm and help her into a barstool.
“Dominik told me you were taking my daughter out tonight,” she remarks as she settles in. Her eyes flit to the bowl of water andthe sponge lying next to it. “You were gone a long time. Is she okay?”
“She’s asleep on the couch now.”
“Not a surprise.” Her lips purse. “She shouldn’t stay on her feet too long, but she’s always overdoing it. She doesn’t want to be pitied.”
“I can’t blame her for that. I’m the same way.”
What little light there is in the kitchen seems to pool in her eyes. They’re tired, but even in the gloom, they see things. Perceptive.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says after studying me for a little while.
It takes me too long to remember why she’s consoling me. Then: “Oh, yes. Thank you. Natascha’s death was a shock.”
“You seem to be handling it well.” There’s an unmistakable edge to her voice.
“I’m not sure if Laila told you, but my wife and I didn’t have the happiest marriage.”
