Page 72 of A Life Chosen

Mathias took down another glass and opened the cabinet above the sink to retrieve the bottle of Macallan the man kept for when he was there. Pouring his own drink, he watched as Rayan lifted the water to his lips and took a long sip.

“Is the physio helping?”

“Yes,” Rayan replied guardedly, and Mathias decided not to press the issue. He was doing the recovery exercises. That was the important part. The fact that he wasn’t noticeably improving—that was something else.

Rayan narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me what’s happened?”

Mathias knew he was struggling with the isolation, pushed to the periphery in a time of complete overhaul. “Short or long version?” He took a swig of scotch, the thick liquid lining his throat.

“Knowing your aversion to embellishment, I figure there’s only a short version.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t wrong. “Piero is dead.”

He watched the news register on Rayan’s face. Was it relief?

“Belkov and Truman have assisted in taking back the city,” he continued as though Piero Russo was already a footnote—a mild inconvenience and not the reason for Mathias’s expulsion from the city, Rayan’s painful debilitation, and Tony lying six feet in the dirt.

“There’s been some rebellion. The Algerians have pushed back, and rumor is the Batos are next. They got a whiff of Piero’s plan and thought they’d exploit the confusion. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Impressive,” Rayan murmured, his features darkening. “More than I’ve gathered reading the paper. From the headlines, you’d think the city was imploding.” His hand shot out, and he steadied himself against the counter.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

Rayan gave him an icy glare. He did not like being treated as if he were anything less than capable. But he downed the rest of the water and stepped back toward the couch. Mathias followed and took a seat across from him, nursing his scotch.

“What were you going to do if I didn’t drink it?” Rayan looked at him with quiet defiance. So he’d known, and he’d drunk it anyway.

“I wasn’t above holding you down, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mathias replied evenly, lifting his own drink. “Thankfully, you saved me the trouble.”

Rayan stared at him. “Why haven’t you come?” he asked, his voice low. “I’ve waited.”

Mathias’s gaze fell on the curve of the man’s jaw. His fingers itched to reach across the table between them. Instead, he shifted his attention to the series of bandages layered across the right side of Rayan’s bare chest, stopping just below his shoulder.

“Can you move it?”

They both watched as Rayan slowly bent the fingers of his right hand into a fist, his arm shuddering in protest, the pain searing across his face.

“That’s enough,” Mathias said.

Rayan sank back into the couch.

“You’re not taking your pills.”

He looked at him wordlessly.

“Martin said you’re not eating—”

“What else did the doctor say?” Rayan cut in. “Seems you’d rather talk to him than ask me.”

Mathias was surprised when no reprimand jumped to his lips. “Why aren’t you taking them?”

“They make me cloudy, make the dreams unbearable,” Rayan admitted reluctantly. “I don’t recognize myself when I’m on them. My brother—” He stopped, exhaling. “I’m just one bad decision away from ending up like him.”

Things began to click into place, things about him Mathias hadn’t been able to put his finger on. “Choosing to get well isn’t a bad decision. Shuffling around here in pain, on the other hand,” he said, taking the bottle of Percocet from his pocket and placing it on the table. “Take the damn pills, Rayan. Worry about the rest when you’re strong enough to fight it.”

Rayan glanced away, his eyes softening as the meds kicked in.

“You should lie down.” Mathias stood and was surprised when Rayan allowed himself to be guided to the bedroom. His hands brushed bare skin, stoking tendrils of electricity that pushed against his resolve.

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