Page 6 of Dance with Death

Is someone going to stop us?

Try to hurt us more?

Take her away from me?

I don’t know anything about the four families except for the fact that they are all monumental pieces of shit.

I don’t tear my eyes from my girl as I take her upstairs and the knife in my heart twists to see her this way. It’s not the first time, but fuck, I’m so sick of seeing her like this that it’s making me fucking insane.

“I’ve got you,” I tell her, but I don’t know if I really do this time or if I ever really did before.

She can’t respond, and I’m not even sure she hears me. She’s just trying to get from one second of pain to the next. I move faster as fresh liquid pools in the corners of her eyes. I make it down the hallway and rush her into her bedroom, moving toward the bed.

“No,” she stops me, “put me on the chair.”

I take her to the armchair in front of the window, lowering her slowly to sit. She keeps her injured leg outstretched in front of her and props it on the ottoman, placing her uninjured right leg down on the floor. Her hands fall naturally toward her wound, landing just above her ankle.

“There’s tape and…and adhesive wrap,” she says, pointing to her dresser, “in the top right drawer.”

I pull it open and find what I need right away. Her drawers are meticulously organized. Her underwear is folded neatly beside her well-worn ballet pointe shoes and the supplies she uses to care for her dance-battered feet. I bring her what she asked for and Kostya’s hand lands on my shoulder.

I shrug it back, shaking him off. “No. I will fucking break your nose if you try to take me from her right now.”

His eyes narrow on me, then dart to her. “Five minutes,” he concedes and steps back.

I’m shocked by the concession, grateful for it, but I don’t have the time or concern to mull it over. I drop to my knees beside Anya. She’s picked up the roll of half-inch-wide white tape and is picking at the edge, trying to free the end of it from the roll. Her agitation grows as shepicksandpickswith trembling fingers.

Pick.

Pick.

Pick.

“Fuck!” She throws the tape onto the ottoman. It bounces off, tumbling to the floor and rolling away. Her fingers dig into her hair and she yells again, “Fuck!”

My shoulders tense, my entire body gone rigid at the way she unravels.

It’s wrong.

This is all wrong.

I force myself to keep my cool, but I feel like I might unravel with her. I lean and grab the roll of tape, forcing my hands to stay steady, not to tremble and mirror her actions, but to be strong and give her the steadiness she so desperately needs.

It’s all I can give her.

I pull the end of the tape free and keep my voice calm. “Where do you want this?”

She exhales long and slow. “I need to immobilize. I don’t know if it’s broken.”

She pants as if getting those words out were an exhausting feat. Looking down at her rapidly swelling foot, I understand why.

“Okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay, Anya, I’ve got you. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

With every second that passes, an invisible syringe of uncertainty injects an ounce more fear into my veins, rushing through me painfully, bringing fiery rage into my chest.

I push down the anger and fear.

I have to.

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