Page 176 of Silenced

Russians are affectionate in ways that Americans aren’t.

When I saw there was a separate course at college for Russian psychology, I’d known why—I’d had a lifetime of lessons from my papa.

So when Nikolai presses a kiss to Dmitri’s forehead, it’s so reminiscent of my childhood that it hurts my heart.

What breaks it, though, is when he murmurs, “Rest, my son, until we can meet again. I lov—”

Before he can finish the sentence, that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Dmitri codes.

Like he was waiting for a final farewell from his papa, the alarms on the systems and machines bleat to life, and, from out of nowhere, a full team runs in and a nurse shepherds us out—not Grigoriy.

He’s too busy trying to save Dmitri’s life.

I didn’t even know they had that many healthcare providers on staff, but they do, and suddenly, I’m glad they do because the look of agony on Nikolai’s face almost brings me to my knees.

But the pain gets locked out. He shuts down, his expression becoming glacial as the alarms finally stop, but Grigoriy doesn’t head out to explain things to Nikolai. Not like he would if everything is okay.

God, is he going to die?

He can’t… can he?

I close my eyes at the stupid thought.

Of course, he can.

Better people than a Russian mobster die every day of the damn week.

My heart starts to pound as the strangest realization curls through me—Dmitri is family.

I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to leave Nikolai.

When there’s still no news, Nikolai sits heavily at my side. I know he’s shut me out because he doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t even grab my hand and entwine our fingers.

And I don’t care.

The ice doesn’t bother me, not when I know it’ll melt for me alone.

Moving to sit on his lap, I bury my face in his throat and cry. As I sob against him, slowly but surely, I can feel him start to defrost.

Then, finally, his arms cup my waist and he hauls me into him. Tighter than ever. So tight it hurts, but it hurtsgood.

That’s when a door opens.

Both our heads whip around so fast on our hunt for the doctor, it’s a small wonder we don’t knock into each other. That’s when we see Grigoriy.

His expression doesn’t bode well.

Grim.

Dark.

Austere.

“No,” I choke out, trembling in Nikolai’s arms.

His hands clamp down, hard enough to bruise. Normally, those types of marks originate in pleasure, because he never hurts me.

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