Page 48 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
Sergei nods slowly, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Can I come back after I get him settled?” He gives me an earnest look. “Please.”
My throat tightens, and I manage a nod. “Okay.”
Sergei finally lets go of my hand and moves back to his brother, helping him gingerly up and out the door, with more affection than I thought him capable of. Once they’re gone, I collapse onto the edge of the bed, my heart still racing. What the hell was that?
I force myself to keep moving, starting with stripping the bloody sheets, disinfecting every surface, and anything else to steady my nerves. I have to do something with my hands to calm my racing thoughts. Sergei’s silence infuriates me. He can’t expect me to patch up that kind of damage without a single answer, yet maybe that’s exactly what I agreed to. Maybe I signed up for much more than Liliya’s care and never saw it coming.
Once the room is clean, I hear a faint knock at the door. It swings open, much more gently this time, and I wave him in. Sergei stands near the door, one hand braced against the frame like he might bolt at any second. His other hand is curled into a fist at his side, tension rippling through his muscles. I summon my courage and address the elephant in the room.
“I need to ask you something,” I say, my voice much calmer than I actually feel.
He turns slightly, enough that I can see the outline of his jaw, sharp and clenched, like he’s anticipating something unpleasant.
“Go ahead.”
I study him for a beat, searching for any crack in his composure.
“Why didn’t you take Sasha to the hospital?”
His eyes flick to mine, and I see a wall go up. He doesn’t want to lie to me, but he doesn’t want to tell the truth either.
“I couldn’t risk it,” he says finally.
“Because…?” I prod.
“That’s not something I can tell you,” he says, only inflaming my frustration.
I cross my arms, heart thudding against my ribcage. “You brought your bloodied brother into my bedroom, Sergei. You asked me to help, and I did, but you can’t expect me to just go on pretending that this is normal. I deserve to know the truth.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek.
“I don’t expect you to pretend this is normal.” He sighs. “I just need you to accept that there are some answers I can’t give you.”
I step closer. “You can trust me, Sergei,” I say, soft but firm. “Let me in.”
It’s hypocritical since I’m hiding a massive secret of my own, but maybe honesty has to start somewhere. Maybe it’s time to lay all our cards on the table.
Instead, his gaze sharpens, and I can feel him pulling away emotionally. He withdraws, just as he always does when I question his world.
“I’m not sure you’d stay if you knew who I really am,” he says at last.
My stomach knots. Not from fear, but from the frustration of being shut out and wanting to reach him only to have the door slammed in my face.
I keep my voice steady, even though my hands are starting to shake.
“I can’t fall for the version you’re willing to show me—that illusion isn’t real. I have to be able to see who you are on the inside. You have to be willing to show me all of you, or this will never work.”
He studies me in silence, muscles taut with some private war. Part of him wants to let me in, but the wall between us still towers. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he’s seconds from grabbing me, or bolting.
Then, finally, he steps forward.
He lifts a hand and brushes a lock of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, like I’m fragile and he’s terrified he’ll be the one to break me.
“You’ve already seen more than I wanted you to,” he says, barely above a whisper.
I search his eyes. “So why do you feel like you have to hide?”
