Page 41 of Ascendent
And stop a fucking outbreak from exploding out of the woods in Tver Oblast.
“Mr. President?”
He started. “Yes?”
Dr. Voronov waited with a tablet in his hands. “Let’s discuss Mr. Andreyev.”
He had photos of the surgery, Sasha cut open and his newly-grown spleen placed in his body. A video, too, showing the attachment site, the vascular connections. “For NASA’s review,” Dr. Voronov said. “His bloodwork looks excellent. We don’t have to worry about rejection since his spleen was grown from his own stem cells. He’s on antibiotics and pain medications. Everything looks good. No complications. We can transfer him back to the Kremlin later today if everything continues to go well. We can monitor him for the next few days from there.”
Sergey left first, juggling phone calls from his Cabinet and his defense minister and the governor of Vladivostok, and then a call from the EU president. He stopped by his office, ostensibly for only a moment, but was hip deep in untangling his Cabinet ministers from an argument when Dr. Voronov called, hours later.
Sasha’s ambulance had arrived.
He sprinted to meet them as Sasha was wheeled into the Kremlin’s private entrance. Sasha was still unconscious, as if he could catch up on all the sleep he’d missed over his life in this one sedation. His frown lines had faded, smoothed out. He looked boyish, his blond hair curling just so, his lips slightly parted. Completely at ease.
“He can recuperate in the medical wing,” Dr. Voronov said carefully, “and I can watch over him there. Or, he can stay with you, Mr. President. Wherever he is, he should have someone monitoring him around the clock.”
How sweet the little lies were, gracefully uttered for the benefit of his security team. A giant named Yuri was there, walking beside Sasha’s gurney. He’d stayed at the hospital for the surgery, camping in the surgical lounge as Sergey had quietly lost his mind. “We are friends. He can recover in my apartment. I’ll watch over him.” He clapped Dr. Voronov on the shoulder and squeezed. “You have done so much already, my friend.”
Dr. Voronov had saved Sasha’s life. Had brought Sasha into Sergey’s orbit. It was a gift he could never, ever repay.
“Shall we wheel him up?”
Sergey cringed. Sasha’s obsessive hunger for privacy, his need to disappear, would be ruined if he was wheeled through the Kremlin on a gurney. But, he wasn’t walking anytime soon.
“Is Mr. Andreyev safe to move?” Yuri’s deep rumble shocked Sergey. He stared at his guard.
“He is, as long as it’s gentle.” Dr. Voronov said.
Nodding, Yuri unfolded a blue blanket lying over Sasha’s legs. He covered Sasha and then gently lifted him from the gurney.
Sergey boggled. Sasha was, by no means, a small man. He could never lift Sasha, not even if he trained for a solid year. Sasha’s shoulders were twice as wide as his own. He weighed almost one hundred kilograms, most of that solid muscle.
And Yuri cradled him in his arms, bridal style, as if he weighed nothing. “Ready, Mr. President?”
They hurried up the stairs and to his residence, Sergey leading, Yuri following, Dr. Voronov trailing. Sergey was so thrown by Yuri’s actions he didn’t think twice about throwing open the door to his apartment and letting them all in, didn’t think twice about guiding Yuri to his bedroom.
Some of his clothes were still scattered on the floor, tossed in a heap as he’d stripped and climbed into bed with Sasha the night before. A bottle of lube rested on his nightstand. Two towels were thrown over a chair. Evidence of Sasha––his watch, his cologne, his comb––sat squarely on the half of the dresser Sergey had gifted to him. Double pairs of shoes were lined up against the wall. Sasha’s jeans and sweater were folded at the foot of the bed.
Sergey tried to hide what he could, stood in front of the dresser and swiped the lube away. Yuri laid Sasha in the bed more delicately than Sergey would have ever expected. Dr. Voronov checked Sasha’s pulse, set up the wireless monitor for his EKG, and reconnected the IV. “Antibiotics and pain relievers. This should last until tomorrow. I will return to check on him then, unless you call me.”
Sergey nodded, their bottle of lube behind his back. “Thank you, both of you.” He escorted them out, tossing the lube onto his dirty clothes before he shook their hands and thanked them again.
When he walked back into his bedroom, he noticed the two pairs of boxers under the bed. His and Sasha’s. Dammit.
He picked up, tidying around Sasha as his nerves built, frenzied energy churning beneath his skin. Eventually, he climbed into bed beside Sasha, plucking away at his laptop. His gaze drifted to his cell phone every three minutes.
Would Oleg call back?
* * *
Fourteen hoursand thirty-nine minutes after Sasha was wheeled into his surgery, he stirred. His eyes slitted open, and he groaned, rolled his head, tried to bury his face in the pillow.
Sergey dumped his laptop to the side and shifted closer. “Hey,zvezda moya.” He smiled, smoothed the hair off Sasha’s forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Sergey.” Sasha’s eyes slipped closed, slid open. Slowly, like he was in a dream, his cheek pressed against the pillow near Sergey and his lips curled into a smile. “You’re here.”
“Of course I am here. I’ll always be here.” He dropped a quick kiss to Sasha’s forehead. “Everything went perfect. You’re doing great. And you have a spleen again. You’re on your way to space.”
