Page 20 of Toxic Salvation
“It was before my time, Vesper. I never met your father, never handled his accounts.” He pauses, combs a hand through his dark hair. “But I checked the files I have access to. It looks like he was their chief surgeon for several years.”
There’s suddenly not enough air in the room to keep me standing. Everything I believed about my father—his integrity, his dedication to saving lives, his moral compass—crumbles in an instant. The man who taught me that medicine was about service, about putting patients first, was harvesting organs from unwilling victims.
I feel nauseous.
“I want to go home,” I manage, shoving my hands deep in my pockets to hide the way they’re shaking. “Let me go home.”
“That’s not possible. Here is the safest place for you and our son.”
Our son.He says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s already adjusted to the idea. Meanwhile, I’m standing here on the verge of a psychotic break.
“You actually want me to stay?”
“I don’twantany of this,” he corrects. “But you’re pregnant and you’re here. Which means I have to take care of you.”
“I am not your charity case?—”
He’s out of his chair and in my face before I can finish the sentence, those green eyes blazing with fury and anguish. “You saw what the Keres is capable of, Vesper! You know what Ihor is willing to do! He already knows too much about you. Do you really want to put our baby at risk?”
I want to argue. I can take care of myself and I don’t need his protection or his pity.
Or at least, that’s what I’d like to believe. But the truth is, I’m terrified. Of Ihor, of the Keres, of the future growing inside me.
Most of all, of the man standing far too close for comfort.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”
“Good. Then it’s settled. You’re staying.”
8
KOVAN
The guest room feels like an overheated tomb. Vesper sits curled on the window seat, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold the pieces together. The moonlight catches the tears she won’t let fall, turning them into silver threads at the corners of her eyes.
I’ve seen men break under torture. I’ve watched grown killers weep when they realized death was coming for them. But this—watching Vesper crumble as everything she believed about her father disintegrates—this is worse than all of it.
BecauseI’mthe one who delivered the killing blow.
“It’s warm in here,” I say. “But you’re shaking.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stares out at the dark garden.
I retreat into the hallway and return with an armload of blankets. At the bottom of the pile, I’ve hidden one of my cashmere sweaters—the gray one she used to steal when she thought I wasn’t looking. I can’t decide if I’m doing it for myself—to keep believing that I can comfort her—or for her to find if she decides she needs comforting.
“Here.” I dump everything on the seat beside her. “It gets cold at night.”
She doesn’t even glance at the blankets. “Am I your prisoner now?”
“No.” I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “You can work, see friends, visit your family. But you’ll have security with you.”
“Ah. Armed guards. How romantic.”
I stand in place. “Do you have any other questions?” I ask, which sounds even fucking dumber out loud than it did in my head.
“I’ll have questions tomorrow,” she mutters. “About my father, the Keres, all of it. But right now…” She sags against the window frame. “I just want to sit.”
The defeat in her voice guts me. I should leave. Give her space to process. But my feet won’t move.
