Page 38 of Toxic Salvation
For a moment, I consider telling him what’s really bothering me. Not my mother’s cancer, but my own pathetic lack of willpower. My own crumbling resolve. All these feelings for him that I can’t seem to bury no matter how hard I try.
“I’m going to make sure she gets the best care available. She’s not going to die on my watch.” There’s something personal in his tone, like my mother’s survival matters to him beyond mere obligation.
“Why are you doing all this?” I ask quietly.
“Because you’re carrying my child, and Annabelle is the only grandparent our baby will ever have.”
“Ifmy mother survives treatment.”
“She will. She’s strong—just like you.”
“I used to think I took after my father. Now, I wonder if I’m more my mother’s daughter.” I cover my face with my hands. “The irony is, I don’t want to be like either of them.”
“You’re not.” When I look up, he’s standing dangerously close. My chest tightens. “You’re your own person. Don’t diminish yourself by comparing yourself to anyone else.”
I should walk away.
Right now.
Instead, I find myself staring into those impossible green eyes, moving closer, trying to catch another hint of the scent that makes breathing easier and harder at the same time.
“Sometimes, I can’t tell if you love me or hate me.”
The moment Kovan’s face falls, I know I’ve made the mistake of speaking my thoughts aloud. He looks tortured for a heartbeat, his brow furrowing with what might be pain.
Then it clears. He becomes all business, perfectly composed. “What I feel for you doesn’t matter, Vesper. I’m wrong for you. You’re better off without me. Safer, too.”
I want to argue, but I’m too busy imagining that future blonde with her perfect life and easy smile, her manicured hands wrapped possessively around Kovan’s arm.
The possibility makes me want to rip out my heart and replace it with something stronger. Something that can’t be broken.
So all I say is, “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
14
KOVAN
The man squeals when he sees us waiting for him in his apartment.Squeals,like a fucking pig. High-pitched and undignified, worse than a teenage girl at a horror movie.
When he realizes how pathetic he sounds, he clears his throat and drops his tone two octaves. “Pakhan. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s the point,” Osip replies from his position by the window. He’s blowing bubbles with his chewing gum.Smack. Smack. POP.Again and again.
Every time it pops, Vasily flinches.
I take in the man’s apartment with disgust. It’s a shithole of epic proportions—magazines stacked waist-high, moldy plates scattered across every surface, empty beer bottles forming their own ecosystem in the corner. The stench of old food and unwashed laundry makes my eyes water.
But it’s the newspapers that get my attention. Dozens of them, opened to the same section and piled beside a wooden crate that passes for a coffee table. The horse racing numbers.
“Interesting hobby,” I note, settling into his ratty recliner. The fabric clings to me with a wet slurp. I make a mental note to burn these clothes later.
Vasily taps his fingers against his thigh. “It’s nothing. Just something to pass the time.”
“Said every degenerate gambler in history.”
His shoulders go rigid. “Last I checked, gambling wasn’t against Bratva rules.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” I cross my legs and watch sweat bead on his forehead. “As long as it doesn’t compromise your duties. Or your loyalty to this organization.”
