Page 100 of Katya and the Young God

“I’ll try not to.”

With a single flickering glance to Pieter, he disappears, leaving a rush of air at the door.

Katya kicks the door closed against the wind, then all but collapses at her desk chair.

Selene’s carefully laid out on the bloody floral couch, blood wiped from her face and bandages meticulously placed, peacefully asleep. Stepan sits on the floor next to it, keeping guard with his tongue lolled out.

Immediately, Pieter’s by Katya’s side, pushing the muddy hair away from her face, cupping her chin in his hand. “They injured you,” he says, a fine tremor of anger in his voice.

Katya drops the bloody, muddy knife onto the desk. “I won.”

His eyes search hers, almost too much, almost too close. “Where are your injuries?”

“Is she okay?” Katya gestures to Selene instead, and even that motion hurts.

“She’s asleep, will probably sleep for a day, then wake very hungry and disoriented,” Pieter says, dismissing her concerns with a shake of his head. “Where are the injuries?”

And it’s then Katya realizes that he’s pissed. His hand shakes against her chin, and the restless dark power sweeps at her feet.

She swats his hand away. “Stop that,” she orders, and the power stops, sudden. “I’ll survive, I’ve had worse.”

But her hands tremble, and there’s something off with her shoulder, too much pain for such an old injury.

His eyes harden and he leans back, and as quick as that he’s the monster from her nightmares. “What did they do to you?”

“I got battered into the wall, it’s fine,” she says, making to push herself up, get to her freezer, pull out the pack of peas and ice herself, but her legs don’t support her, dumping her back onto the chair. She flinches, making to press against her shoulder, but he catches her hand, stopping her.

“Let me guess, the Golem?” He snaps out, his accent rough against her ears. “You let yourself be beat by a Golem?”

“Let myself is a strong phrase, don’t you think?”

He makes a harsh scoff in the back of his throat, then, hands gentler than his face, tugs off her jacket, peeling back her over shirt.

Katya makes the mistake of looking down at her shoulder, then swears.

The entire thing is a mottled mess, already turning purple and blue, with a bloody red abrasion where the Golem struck, full of the mud that seeped through and fibers from her shirt.

Pieter straightens, looking down at her, and the lost, scared look flickers in his eyes.

Katya rolls her shoulder back, and there’s the corresponding stab of pain, but she can move it, there’s none of the paralyzing lack of motion that came with the original injury.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she says, prodding along her collarbone, fingers searching for anything that suggests a bone chip. Each touch is its own small agony, its own small torture, but she blinks away any reflexive tears before they can fall. “I’ll recover.”

Careful, so careful that it hurts in a completely different way, he pushes her so she’s sitting back, her back supported fully by the chair. He cradles the back of her neck, as if checking her skull for additional contusions, his fingers gentle.

“I’m either driving you to the hospital, or you’re going to let me give you medical help,” he says and his voice shakes. “Those are your options.”

Immediately, deep down, she knows this is a fight she can’t win. “Medical kit in the closet, ice pack in the freezer, sterile wipes under the sink,” she says, and he immediately follows her instructions. “Cleaning any broken skin takes priority, then stabilization.”

She has her sling still, from when they wanted her to never move her shoulder after her first injury, but it’s hidden at the bottom of her underwear drawer and she’d sooner eat her foot than dig it out.

“I don’t think I got a concussion, I will have deep bruising along my back, knees, and hips tomorrow, but I’ll recover.”

He doesn’t speak as he collects the other materials, setting them on the table in front of her, before dragging the other chair to be directly in front of her.

“Did your stitches burst?” She asks as he sits across from her with a wet towel.

“No.” His voice is flat, and without giving her a space to breathe he starts to clean off the mud.

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