Page 7 of Tarnished Queen

But the barest thought of something happening to Nikolai tightens like a steel cage around my chest, making me forget the few seconds of relief I just felt.

I need to know if he’s okay. I’m reaching for my phone on the nightstand just as the door opens.

“You’re up and moving, I see.” A man walks into the room. He has on navy blue scrubs and a surgical mask around his face. All I can see are his deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows.

“I feel mostly okay,” I tell him. “A little sore, I think.”

Stiffness is already setting in along my neck and shoulders. But considering I could be dead on the side of the road, I’m grateful it isn’t worse.

“Soreness is to be expected after the kind of accident you had. What caused your accident, do you know?” His voice is muffled from the mask, making it difficult to hear him. None of the other nurses have had masks on, so I want to ask why he’s wearing one, but I also don’t want to be rude.

“The driver lost control,” I lie.

I’m not about to tell this man or anyone else that I lunged at Xena and tried to steer us off the road. I don’t think I did anything wrong; Xena was threatening my life, after all. But I don’t know how this kind of thing works. Nikolai seems to want to handle Bratva business himself without the police getting involved. Me telling this nurse about Xena could bring a shitstorm down on him and us. It’s best to keep my mouth closed.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you know the driver?”

I nod, too afraid to say anything else and give myself away.

“Has anyone told you whether she is alright?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not yet. I asked the EMTs, but they said they didn’t know where she was being taken.”

“She’s here,” he says matter-of-factly. “In this hospital. Just down the hall.”

I do my best to keep my expression flat and neutral, but the machine next to my bed starts chirping out an alarm as my heart rate climbs. And as the beeping becomes more frantic, my breathing hitches. That steel band around my chest tightens cruelly, and I have to wheeze breath in and out of my narrowing windpipe.

“Are you okay?” the nurse asks, moving towards the bed. “Are you… are you frightened?”

I press a hand to my heart, trying to manually calm myself down. But that must be answer enough because the nurse leans down next to my bed, his voice in my ear.

“I’ll move you to another wing of the hospital.”

“Can you do that?” I rasp.

He nods. “I can do whatever you need. I want you to feel safe with us.”

Just then, the door opens again. A woman with dark, wavy hair twisted back into a large bun steps into the room and then stutters to a stop when she sees the male nurse next to my bed. Her brows knit together. “I’m… I’m sorry. Are you—” She checks the paper in her hands and then looks back to the man. “This room is on my rotation. Are you from the last shift?”

“I was assigned to this room,” the man says breezily. He walks towards the woman and waves her towards the door. “Let’s go sort this out.”

The woman looks at me and then the man again, trying to put the pieces together. As she does, an uneasy feeling settles in my gut. When she follows the male nurse out of the room, I fumble for my phone and dial Nikolai.

“Please pick up,” I whisper. “Please, please, please pick up.”

The phone rings and rings. But with each unanswered tone, the garden of hope I’ve been tending in my chest withers and dies.

Just as panicked tears are burning against my eyes, the line clicks open. I hear breathing.

“Nikolai!” I gasp right away. “Thank God. It’s you. I was so—” My voice wavers, and I clear it quickly and carry on, the words falling out of me too fast. “I’m so glad you picked up. I don’t know what you know or what Xena said, but things are so complicated… I was in an accident. I’m okay. The baby is okay. But something is wrong. Xena is here in the hospital, I think. My nurse is weird. He is being really nice, but it’s almost too nice. God, I sound crazy complaining about a nurse who is too nice. But something feels wrong, and I need you here. I really need you here.”

The words come out in such a jumble that I’m not sure if I’ve made any sense or if Nikolai can even understand me. Or if he even wants to understand me.

And as I sit in the hospital room, my phone clutched to my ear, listening to Nikolai’s measured breathing on the other end of the line, I have a feeling he’s not feeling especially sympathetic to my plight.

“Nikolai,” I sob, blinking back tears. “Please. I never… I never meant to hurt you or—”

The line goes dead.

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