Page 17 of The Breath Before Forever

Vaslav wasn’t any or every man. He was him, and that meant he expected more of those around him accordingly. Including from his doctors. Or rather—his doctor, at the moment. Dealing with one medical professional was already asking a lot from Vaslav’s thin patience and non-existent trust. Neither of which he had much to offer to begin with. Life certainly had a way of keeping him on his toes. That, or the universe was having a good laugh at his expense.

“I could write you a script for something to help with the lack of appetite,” Bogdan had said that morning on the phone when Vaslav called at what the doctor grumbled was an ungodly, unacceptable hour—it was nearly nine.

To be fair, Vaslav thought Bogdan should have counted himself lucky that he didn’t drive to the other side of Moscow to pay the doctor a personal visit when his migraine had still been a solid fucking ten on the pain scale.

No, he absolutely did not want more pills, because really, he didn’t even want to take the ones he was already on. Bogdan’s final suggestion for the unfortunate new symptom related to the medications?

“Get some dank weed, then.”

If not for the subsequent phone call Vaslav received less than an hour after Bogdon hung up on him, he might have actually made that trip to the doctor’s private residence. Alas, life had once again decided to step in the way of letting Vaslav release his rage. A little more for him to bottle up instead.

Because that wasn’t concerning at all.

Despite his spiraling, hyper-focused thoughts on his doctor keeping him from finishing the property sketch on his desk, Vaslav had yet to forget the time. He clocked the goddamn time again only to find he still wasn’t pleased with what stared back. Barely ten minutes had passed since he last checked.

“Oh—you weren’t hungry?”

The soft question from the den’s open doorway reminded Vaslav that he wasn’t alone in the large house no matter what it felt like to him when Vera was gone. Strange how things like that worked ...

“I tried,” he said lamely to a waiting Mira. It wasn’t a lie. The sandwich had one bite from each triangular end, and the bowl of the stainless-steel spoon still held the remnants of the red soup’s broth at the very bottom. He opted not to mention how those two bites and one spoonful had tased like what he imagined cardboard did.

The taste wasn’t Mira’s fault. She could cook.

He gestured to the tray of untouched food, saying, “Go ahead and take it.”

He could have called Mira back an hour ago when she first brought the tray in, but the food had been yet another distraction for Vaslav to keep from watching the clock on and off. Something else to focus his irritation and annoyance on that was visible and tangible. Not to mention, explainable.

“Give the sandwich to Marrow,” Vaslav said as Mira entered the den to remove the tray. “Better not to waste it, no?”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Mira assured. “That dog’s scrap bowl is never empty.”

She paused, then, and gave Vaslav a smile before picking up the tray and adding, “Well, until he gets to the bowl, that is.”

The pup was more prone to eat scraps in the winter months, and often stayed inside the rear hallway to get out of the cold. Vaslav wasn’t the only beating heart on the property with a mood about the changing seasons.

“Right,” Vaslav replied absentmindedly.

His distraction did not go unnoticed.

“Did the car service call?” Mira asked.

Vaslav would like to say he was surprised that Mira had picked the right raw nerve causing his current disconnect and surly disposition, but that would be a lie. Anyone who had any real look at his day to day knew the massive difference Vera’s presence made to his mood and life. Even if he didn’t say as much, he didn’t have to. She spoke for herself.

“They did,” he eventually confirmed.

“Mrs. Pashkov is on her way home?” Mira brightened at the prospect of Vera’s later arrival to the estate, but it faded the second she realized Vaslav hadn’t shown the same excitement. Yet, she didn’t prod for more.

“She’s on her way home,” Vaslav murmured, eyeing the clock again but not adding anything extra to the news. After all, he still hadn’t decided how to feel about it. That was entirely Vera’s doing, too.

Well ...

Vera got her weekend trip with her friend and mother before a very busy week that would lead into the Avdonin’s departure from the country. He gave her that, at least. What happened when she got home, however, was an entirely different matter.

“Mira,” Vaslav called at the woman’s back as she headed out of the den, “could you make me a pot of tea?”

Even if it ended up tasting like cardboard, too—oh, well. It was something in his stomach. At the moment, he was running on nothing which couldn’t be helping his souring mood.

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