Page 7 of Toxic Temptation
If Luka is confused by any of that, he shows no sign of it. Like his uncle, he just looks at me, unblinking, unfazed. Baby fat, yes, buthe’s got more years in his eyes than ought to be there. Too many years. Too many things he wasn’t supposed to see.
I glance away.
“My father is dead,” Luka tells me bluntly and out of nowhere, the way only an eight-year-old can. “That’s why Uncle Kovan takes care of me now.”
“Then can Uncle Kovan explain why you ended up in the hospital with anaphylaxis?”
I brace for anger, for condescension, but Kovan simply sighs and runs his hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “He’s allergic to certain food and someone neglected to watch him.” His green eyes darken. “I will make sure they’re appropriately punished.”
A shiver creeps up my spine. People don’t say things like that. Not normal people, at least.
But it doesn’t take a genius to tell that this man isn’t normal. The gun was a dead giveaway, of course. Even without that, though, I’d have known in an instant that he is something other, something else.
It’s in his posture. It’s in the set of his jaw and the strength of his hands.
It’s in his name, even.Kovan.All serrated edges and tarnished steel, but with a velvety smoothness to the last syllable that lingers on your tongue for a long time after you’ve said it.
Kovan.A dangerous name.
Kovan.A luxurious name.
Kovan.A name I probably ought to forget.
“Thank you for helping him,” Kovan says after a beat of awkward silence.
“Yeah. Of course.” I keep my attention focused on a particularly fascinating groove in the tile floor at my feet. “It’s what I’m here for.”
Another gunshot rings through the hospital. I half-duck despite myself, earning a sympathetic glance from Luka. For his part, he seems completely desensitized to the sounds of gunfire.
“Don’t worry, Vesper,” he says with so much confidence that I can’t decide whether I want to laugh or cry. “Nothing will happen to us as long as we’re with Uncle Kovan. He’ll protect us from the Keres.”
The moment the words are out of his mouth, his face pales, his eyes go wide, and he claps both hands over his mouth before turning to his uncle in fear.
Kovan’s face is an unreadable mask, but there are taut tendons in his arms that I swear weren’t there a second ago.
Keres.
What the hell is a Keres?
And why do I feel as though I’ve heard the word before?
“We need to get out of here,” Kovan declares, glossing over the tense moment. “Luka, can you walk now?”
Luka nods and extricates himself from Kovan’s arms. He’s tall for his age. Lanky, with broad shoulders that’ll fill out with a quickness once he tumbles over the lip of puberty. His hair falls to his eyes before he brushes it off his forehead.
“We can’t leave Vesper,” Luka insists as Kovan grabs his arm.
I’m inclined to agree. True, I don’t trust anything about Kovan—not his gun, not his tattoos, and not the carelessness or recklessness with which he carries around his good looks.
But there are shooters out there, roaming free in the hospital. If I have to choose between one or the other, I’m going with the devil I know.
“Osip and Pavel will be here by now.”
“Who and who?” I ask.
Kovan’s eyes meet mine. “Backup.”
“Backup” was not high on the list of words I would’ve liked to hear. “Police” or “National Guard” or “a professionally trained SWAT team with shields and stun grenades” would’ve all been preferable.
