Page 35 of Refrain

“My little Ksei…”

It won’t take him long to find me. No matter where I go. Where I hide. I should be tracking another gun down. I should make a new plan. Ineedto be ready for him.

I have to find Anna.

But I’m so damn tired… It takes all I have to scrub my hair clean and rinse my body beneath the scalding shower spray. I wind up lingering in the stall until the water’s gone ice cold and my teeth are chattering loudly enough to drown out the voices in my head. Far too soon, a louder sound cuts over the drone. Knocking.

“Hey. You all right in there?”

I jump and look at the window, gauging the passage of time. The sky looks a darker hue of indigo.

“You okay?”

The doorknob jiggles. I guess he left me alone for as long as he dared. Either I’d climbed out the window despite his advice, or I’d drowned myself—I can tell from his cautious tone that those are the two suspicions he’s torn between. I’m tempted to let him barge in and see the truth for himself.

“I’m…I’m still here,” I call out once it does really seem like he will open the door. “I’m still here.”

“Okay.” He retreats down the hall but returns a few minutes later. “I’ve got some clothes,” he tells me. “I’ll leave them right here.”

I don’t bother thanking him. I just give my hair one last rinse and then climb out onto a ratty, threadbare towel, ignoring the reflection in the mirror. A neatly folded stack of clothing waitsfor me just outside the door—a sweatshirt and oversized sweatpants. They smell like him. Smoke and mint.

I dress quickly, and when I leave the bathroom, I find him on the couch, taking in my damp, dripping frame.

He indicates his approval with a tilt of his chin. “I guess I can’t call ya Yellow anymore.”

“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t elaborate. Rather than pursue the issue, I cross the kitchen and grab one of the empty shopping bags from the counter, shoving my soiled clothing inside it. “If you have a washing machine, I don’t mind—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He points toward the corner. “You can set them there.”

Once I do, there’s nothing else to do with my hands. I’m forced to wring them together, wincing as my thumb jars the row of stitches on the injured one. He doesn’t attempt to forge a conversation. It’s like he knows I’m distracted by the thick, accented drawl crawling through my thoughts.

Moya lyubov...

“I should probably get out of your hair,” I blurt out, suddenly desperate for him to say something. Even goodbye.

“Or not,” he says, fulfilling my wish. “I take it that you’ll be needing a job, too.”

I flinch, shaking my head, but a fitting excuse won’t come. “Think your friend would mind?”

“He will,” Espisido admits. He’s got another cigarette in his hand, inhaling more of it than the oxygen around us. Between puffs, he adds, “But I’ll take care of him. I’ll admit that it doesn’t hurt that you have a pretty face.”

I must make a sound, because he looks up sharply, his gaze homing in on how my fingers curl into fists.

“Fuck, I don’t mean it like that. Arno’s just a pig. That’s all.”

“It’s all right.” It’s not his fault that life in the club ruined thatword for me, stripping all sense of compliment or affection from each syllable.Pretty.“D-don’t apologize.”

“Remember, you need to keep those dry,” he scolds, eyeing my arm. He’s by my side in an instant, frowning at what he sees up close.

I had to take the gauze off to shower, and residual soap bubbles dot the visible stitches.

“Clean and dry,” he insists. “Say it for me at least one time so that I have a solid defense when you sue me for infection.”

“You should worry about yourself.”

He’s still bleeding, just a faint reddish streak along his hairline. I don’t realize I’ve touched him there until my fingertips register the clammy flesh of his forehead.

“I’ll live,” he says, shrugging me off—and not for the first time.

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