Page 94 of The Beast of Moscow

“Stop,” she told him when he hit himself again. “Vas, stop it!”

“Fucking fuck,” he snarled again, massaging his knuckles way too hard into his temple even as she tried to pull his arm away. “I gotta ... I need to br—”

His words cut off with another heave that sent him spinning toward the trash can again, but on the way, he knocked over the glass of water, sending it spilling across the countertop, soaking the other items she hadn’t even noticed there.

“The passports,” Vera cried, reaching to pull them out of harm’s way before they were destroyed as Vaslav vomited into the garbage again. “Why are these here?”

She didn’t get an answer, but she tried to help him again anyway.

Had he been in pain the whole time the Italian was there? He’d hid it well, if so, because she couldn’t even hear it in his voice. Did that mean he’d lied to her earlier when he told her his migraine was better?

“What can I do?” she asked him. “Just tell me how to help.”

Because she still would; even though he had been mean and cruel, and didn’t even apologize, she still wanted to help this man.

He clearly needed it.

He needed someone.

Vaslav still didn’t act like he heard her, and her feeble attempts to help did nothing to pull his fist away from his head. She fell to the floor with him when he crumpled into a heap against the kitchen island, her arms wrapped around one of his as she tucked into his side when he started to groan.

And that sound?

It hurt her deep.

Like she could feel the way he hurt, too. Agony he couldn’t escape.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she told him even as her kidneys screamed in pain. “I’ll do anything you need me to, okay?”

If it would help ...

“Call Igor,” was all he managed to say.

Spit through clenched teeth, barely even audible, and every word was a struggle.

Call Igor.

The pain had to be bad.

After all, he wasn’t dead.

*

“Wake up, sleepy head.”

Vera blinked awake in just enough time to feel a soft kiss press down on the crown of her head. By the time she’d gained her bearings enough to realize someone had covered her with a white blanket, and the view rushing outside the porthole window said they had touched down in Moscow, Vaslav was already back in his seat.

Like he hadn’t woken her up at all.

Stretching her arms and yawning out what remained of her sleepy confusion, she met the gaze of the man in the white leather seat across from hers.

“A nap helped me, too,” he told her.

Vera tried to smile, but it was small and weak.

He didn’t miss it.

“I’m sorry.”