Page 41 of Conquer
Chapter Twelve
Ibarely have the chance to mourn his absence before I sense Vadim return just as I’m dozing off. He slips into the room without a word, reclaiming his post beside me. I shiver, content, as warmth feathers my forehead—the shadow of a chaste kiss.
As I continue to feign sleep, his fingers capture mine, lifting them from my crumpled blankets. I make myself limp, my breathing steady. Maybe I’m curious as to what he’ll do? And he doesn’t disappoint.
With breathtaking care, he brings my fingers to his mouth, or so I assume from the warm bursts of air ghosting my knuckles. The feel of his lips a second later—grazing the back of my hand reverently—makes me shiver. Damn this man...
He gently strokes whatever parts of me he can reach. Runs through my hair with aching gentleness. He lavishes me in silent praise, all in secret without an audience to preen for. And even though my eyes remain closed, I know that this ishim—a man Irina was never, ever privy to.
The real, unfiltered Vadim.
* * *
I wakeup to find a watchful gaze directed my way, its owner wearing another stripped-down suit—this time with a navy dress shirt and no jacket. The moment I start to lift my head from the pillows, he races to get me a pitcher of water and small pieces of fruit, fussing to make sure I’m hydrated and fed.
Once my nurse comes in and performs her assessment, then the doctor—who deems me stable enough to leave—I find myself discharged and promptly carried into a waiting car a little after noon.
“Where’s Magda?” I ask once I find the backseat empty.
Vadim’s chosen to drive us himself, and he chuckles as he settles into the driver’s seat, his lip twitching. “Forcing Ena to teach her gardening techniques. Well, perhaps not necessarily against his will.” His expression turns wistful as he navigates the steering wheel with one hand, the other placed firmly on my knee. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the bastard smile,” he admits. “At anyone.”
Satisfied, I sit back in my seat, oddly amused by the prospect. But then my thoughts turn to more dangerous topics as my injuries throb, even after a dose of—much less potent than my initial dosage—pain medication.
“How did she get past him?” I ask, eyeing Vadim warily. “Irina?”
He frowns, all traces of joy vanishing from his face. “I suspect she timed it. Watched him long enough to know his schedule—when he’d be the easiest to circumvent. She was always like that. Cunning.”
An assessment that brings up another chilling suspicion circling my brain. “Magda… Do you think she remembers Irina?”
He cocks his head, his brow furrowing. If he’s considered such a possibility himself, I can’t tell. “What makes you ask that?”
Several reasons come to mind. Her aversion to roses, for one. Not to mention her almost obsessive need for her teddy bear—a bear, that I’m starting to realize, may symbolize more to her than just a sentimental gift. A fact bolstered by a certain picture she’d chosen to hide within it.
He can protect you,she told me after giving me her drawing—which I’ve kept tucked within my discharge paperwork.
For all of her intellect, she’s still seven at heart. A child prone to magical beliefs of monsters and mystery—and one who trusts in Vadim’s presence so strongly that, in her mind, he could protect her from anything. Even her worst nightmares…
“It’s nothing,” I finally say, rather than bother him with a bunch of random observations that may not mean anything. “But have you talked to her yet? About what she might remember of her life before you found her?”
It’s a topic that feels far too intimate for me to broach again. Only her father should have reign over that arena.
…Shouldn’t he?
“No,” he confesses. “I haven’t. Not yet. According to her records, she had decent nutrition and healthcare prior to being discovered. But…” He frowns and lifts his hand from me, stroking it through his hair.
“But?” I prod when he falls silent.
“Her diabetes was newly onset, so her blood sugars had been wildly uncontrolled—but that is typical with this illness. Otherwise, there wasn’t a mark on her.”
But I know firsthand that abuse can extend far beyond the physical. Some of the worst wounds are the ones inflicted upon your soul. As strange as it feels to admit, even to myself, Irina’s attack—while hurting like a bitch—doesn’t sting anywhere near as badly as some of the verbal blows Jim dished out. Injuries to my self-esteem that I’m still recovering from years later.
The thought of Magda suffering even a fraction of the same…
“She doesn’tneedIrina,” Vadim says, injecting himself into my scattered thoughts. “Irina’s heart has only ever had room for herself. But you? Bleeding and injured, your sole concern was that Magda didn’t see you in such a state.”
Awe colors his voice, making my cheeks catch fire. He makes it sound so momentous—so unfathomable to him. That the welfare of another could supersede even someone’s personal pain.
Not that I’m the only one capable of that kind of selflessness.
