Page 88 of Mile High Ruin

“You looked worried.”

“I always look worried when my brother texts.”

“Your brother,” he repeats. “Why?”

I hesitate. This is not something I normally discuss with passengers.

Then again, Vadim has had his mouth on my breasts and carried me out of an assault in his arms, so perhaps ordinary professional boundaries are already dead.

“He’s sick.”

Vadim’s expression shifts. “How sick?”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

He nods once. To my surprise, he doesn’t press. The lack of pressure makes me want to say more.

“He has been for a while,” I add. “Treatment gets expensive, and insurance finds creative ways not to cover things once you need it most.”

“That’s why you needed this assignment.”

It’s not a question.

I look out the window. “Partly.”

“And why losing your job mattered so much.”

“Losing a job generally matters.”

“You know what I mean.”

I sigh. “My family has had money problems for years. My mom works, I work, Ethan used to work when he could, but things pile up. Medical bills are good at that.”

Vadim’s thumb moves once over the back of my hand. “What illness?”

“I said I don’t want to get into it.”

He nods again. “All right.”

That surprises me more than if he had demanded the answer.

I glance at him. “You’re not going to ask?”

“You told me not to.”

“Since when does that stop you?”

“Occasionally I’m capable of restraint.”

I think about the back seat thirty seconds ago. “Debatable.”

His mouth almost curves.

I think about everything that has happened today. It’s unbelievable that less than twenty-four hours ago I was sitting on my bed, unemployed.

The hospital was a blur too. The doctor kept Vadim for a little over an hour, cleaned and stitched the graze, ordered imaging to make sure the bullet had done nothing more serious, then discharged him with painkillers, antibiotics, and instructions to rest. Vadim listened to those instructions with the expression of a man being mildly inconvenienced by his own mortality.

He refused the wheelchair they brought, ignored the nurse who told him not to strain the wound, and walked out under his own power while Anton handled the paperwork and security cleared the private exit. I followed mostly because I still didn’t quite trust him not to tear the stitches open before we reached the car.