Page 50 of Preferential Treatment

“Tea is good for fevers,” he said, fishing more supplies out of his bags. He pulled out a clear take-out container filled with chicken soup. The bright yellow broth was dotted with oil, and speckled with herbs. Hearty chunks of chicken and thickly cut vegetables floated at the top. “Sit up, if you can.”

“I don’t want to,” Kate grumbled.

“Then I will feed this to you.” He started to pry the lid off.

“I can feed myself,” she said quickly, pushing herself up on weak arms.

Mikhail handed her the soup and a plastic spoon. He scooped up some other supplies and went to her kitchen. Kate could see him through the wide doorway, rummaging around as if he owned the place.

“Where is your kettle, Katya?”

“I don’t have one.”

Mikhail dug around some more until he found a dinged-up old saucepan. He moved to the sink, filling it with water, and brought it to the stove. Kate watched him with a detached, fuzzy sort of interest. The compress on her chest was tingly and warm, a bit like menthol, but somehow smelled worse. Resigned to her fate, she started eating the soup he’d brought.

It was delicious. And her stomach, which had gone somewhat dormant in the face of all her other body pains, suddenly made a dramatic gurgling noise. It quieted down as she continued eating, and when she was done with the soup, Mikhail appeared with a steaming mug.

“Hot tea with honey and orange and spices,” he pronounced, handing the mug to her. “Drink it all.”

“You’re really bossy when I’m not fucking you,” Kate observed.

Mikhail shot her a look that was mildly exasperated, but also slightly heated. “I’m not bossy, I’m sensible. Let me look at the compress.” Kate held the warm mug between her cold hands and sat complacently while Mikhail lifted her shirt. He peeled the compress back a bit, considered it for a second, then pressed it back down. “A few more minutes,” he told her, lowering her shirt.

Kate sipped cautiously at the tea, prepared to hate it. “Oh,” she said, surprised at the flavor.

“Good?”

“I mean… it doesn’t really taste like tea. It tastes like hot, spicy orange juice.” She paused. “That sounds like it would be gross, but it’s not.”

“I know. Drink it all.”

Kate shrugged and did as she was told. She stared vacantly at the TV while she drank, only vaguely aware of Mikhail cleaning things up in the kitchen and rustling around in the bags he’d brought. When the mug was empty, she set it on the coffee table. Mikhail sank down next to her again, gently lifting her shirt to examine the compress once more. Her skin felt hot and tingly underneath it, and when he peeled it away, the open air felt shockingly cold against it.

“That’s enough for now.” He disposed of the used compress in an empty bag. “You should sleep in your bed. You can’t get good rest on a sofa.”

“I can’t fall asleep at night if I spend the whole day in my bed.”

Mikhail considered that, then relented. “Fine. Lay down, then. I’ll close the curtains in here.”

“Why are you doing all this?” Kate asked, sinking back down.

Mikhail paused, halfway through closing the nearest curtain panel. “You’re my knyazhna,” he answered flatly.

That didn’t sound like the whole truth, but sleep was already tugging Kate under. She yawned and pulled her blanket up, giving in.

When Kate woke, the TV had been turned off and the apartment was completely dark except for a single lamp in the opposite corner of the room. Mikhail was seated in the armchair near her head, silently tapping away at his phone. He’d pulled off his suit coat and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms. Kate watched him for a moment, entranced by the movement of muscle and tendons as he typed.

After a moment, his gaze flicked over to her. When he realized her eyes were open, he quickly leaned forward, setting his phone aside.

“How do you feel?” he asked, reaching out to lay his hand against her forehead. She tried to recoil—her skin was probably slicked with grease and sweat, and she hadn’t showered since Sunday night. There was nowhere to go, though, and Mikhail’s palm rested there for a moment, his expression thoughtful, but not disgusted.

“A little better, I think.”

He nodded. “You are not so warm. Do you have a thermometer?”

She reluctantly allowed him to take her temperature, recognizing that resistance was futile.

“Hm. Ninety-nine-point-five.”

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