Chapter 48
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then: “Because no one takes care of you, Rowan. You’re always the one caring for others—your mother, your friends, even me in your own way. Someone should return the favor occasionally.”
His honesty steals my breath more effectively than the fever.
“Oh,” is all I can manage.
His smile turns rueful. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not completely heartless.”
“I never thought you were,” I whisper.
And it’s true. For all his danger, all his darkness, I’ve never believed Vince Akopov is without a heart.
I’ve just been terrified of what might happen if I found it.
No. I can’t go down that road. Can’t let myself think about hearts and feelings and anything beyond the physical connection we share. That way lies nothing but devastation.
“Sleep,” he says, squeezing my hand once before releasing it. “Doctor will be here in a few hours to check on you.”
“Doctor? You called a doctor for the flu?”
“I called my doctor for you,” he corrects. “And we don’t know it’s the flu.”
I sink back against the pillows, lacking the energy to argue. “Thank you.”
He nods, then hesitates at the door. “Need anything else before I make some calls?”
Just you, I think treacherously. I just need you.
“No,” I say instead. “I’m fine.”
The doctor confirms it’s a nasty strain of flu, prescribes rest, fluids, and medication I’m pretty sure isn’t available to normal people without black market connections.
I sleep most of the day away, waking in the evening to find Vince sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading something on his tablet.
“You’re still here,” I croak.
He looks up, setting the tablet aside. “Where else would I be?”
“Literally anywhere else? Running your criminal empire? Dating potential brides?”
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face. “I can run things from here. And I’ve postponed the next meeting with Anastasia.”
That gets my attention. “Why?”
“Because I have more important matters to attend to.” His eyes are unreadable in the dim light. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” I push myself to sitting, wincing at the ache in my muscles. “But better than this morning.”
“Good.” He rises, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand presses against my forehead, cool and gentle. “Fever’s down.”
I lean into his touch without thinking. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Would you prefer I treat you cruelly?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I can arrange that, if it would make you more comfortable.”
“No, it’s just…” I struggle to find the words. “This isn’t… what we do.”
“And what is it we do, exactly?”
Heat that has nothing to do with fever creeps up my neck. “You know what I mean.”
“Sex,” he says bluntly. “We fuck. We satisfy a mutual physical need.”
Put so crudely, it sounds sordid. Small. Less beautiful than what it feels like when he’s inside me, when he’s making me fall apart in his arms.
“Yes,” I agree, though it feels like a lie.
“And you think that’s all there is between us?”
My heart stutters. This is unprecedented territory. “Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.” He doesn’t elaborate, though. He just studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Are you hungry?”
The abrupt change of subject leaves me reeling. “A little.”
“Good. I’ll have something brought up.” He stands, moving toward the door. “Any requests?”
“Soup would be nice,” I say, still trying to process the conversation we almost had. The question he didn’t answer.
“Soup it is.”
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
For a moment, I think he might say something more.
Instead, he simply nods and leaves.
34
ROWAN
A few days later, with the flu in my rearview mirror, I go back to work. I’ve been at my desk for a grand total of two hours when the hospital calls.
“Ms. St. Clair?” Dr. Patel’s voice is carefully neutral, but I’ve been around doctors long enough to recognize when they’re padding bad news with professional detachment.
“What happened?” I grip the edge of my desk, suddenly dizzy despite being seated. “Is she okay?”
“Your mother has experienced what we call a cascade failure. Multiple systems showing stress simultaneously.”
The room seems to tilt. “English, please, Dr. Patel.”
He sighs. “The cancer has spread more aggressively than we anticipated. Her liver function is declining, and there are new masses in her lungs.”
“But the treatment was working.” My voice cracks. “You said the numbers were improving.”
“It was. They were. But sometimes, cancer adapts.”
I close my eyes. Cancer adapts. Cancer evolves. Cancer finds a way. I’ve heard all the metaphors before, each one making this disease sound more like a supervillain than a collection of mutated cells.
“What are our options?” I ask, even though I already know the answer won’t be good.
“There’s an experimental protocol—immunotherapy combined with targeted radiation. It’s showing promising results in cases like your mother’s.”
“How promising?”
Dr. Patel pauses. “Forty-three percent remission rate in the initial trials.”
Not great. Not terrible. Just the same coin flip we’ve been gambling on for years now.
“And the cost?” I ask, bracing myself.
When he names the figure, I actually laugh. A short, bitter, bracing sound that has nothing whatsoever to do with humor.
“That’s more than I make in a year,” I tell him. “Even with my promotion.”
“I understand this is difficult, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice softens. “But without the treatment, your mother’s prognosis is… limited. Weeks, perhaps. A few months at most.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. Weeks. Months. I knew this day would come eventually, but I thought we had more time. I thought the regular treatments were working. I thought—
“Ms. St. Clair? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” I force myself back to the present. “When does she need to start?”
“As soon as possible. Ideally, within the next two weeks.”
“I’ll figure something out.” The words come automatically, the same promise I’ve been making since I was eleven years old. I’ll figure something out, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.
After more details and a few unhelpful platitudes, I hang up. My hands are shaking so badly that I drop my phone twice before managing to set it on my desk.
Two weeks to come up with a small fortune.
Impossible.
Even if I emptied my savings, sold everything I own, and maxed out every credit card I could get my hands on, I wouldn’t come close.
I could ask Vince for a loan. The thought bursts into my mind unwanted, unwelcome.
No. Absolutely not.
My relationship—if you can call it that, which you shouldn’t—with Vincent Akopov is already complicated enough without adding financial desperation to the mix.
Besides, what would I even say? Hey, remember all those times you fucked me silly? Could you maybe pay for my mom’s experimental cancer treatment in return?
God, just thinking it makes me feel sick.
I stare at my phone after hanging up with Dr. Patel. I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life implode. That can’t be my mother he’s talking about.
Except it is.
I need to get to the hospital. Now.
My hands move mechanically, shutting down my computer, gathering my purse. I’m just going through the motions, operating on autopilot while my brain tries to process the impossible math problem I’ve been handed.