“Drink your soda, kotyonok.”
I did. The cold fizz felt good on my throat. I licked my dry lips and looked around the room, from Kirill’s frown, to a crack in the plaster walls, to the frayed carpet. It wasn’t exactly a trendy executive office.
“I’ll reimburse you for everything,” I said. “The doctor and—” I glanced at the can in my hand, which amused Ronan.
“I’ll add the soda to your bill,” he said.
At that moment, I realized I completely overlooked his expensive suit, believing he’d have trouble affording a private doctor’s visit. Suddenly understanding he was only playing with me, I met his gaze.
Click.
It wasn’t the pull of a trigger. It was him clicking a pen in his hand.
“U neye sotryaseniye mozga, i ona dolzhna byt’ osmotrena v bol’nitse,” Kirill said.
“He believes you have a mild concussion,” Ronan translated. “The symptoms might last a few days.”
I guessed it explained my odd thoughts and behavior. However, I was already feeling a little better now I had some sugar in me. The lack of food and sleep probably didn’t help the situation.
An inkling tickled my thoughts. Kirill said “bol’nitse” again, didn’t he? I must have misheard him because Ronan hadn’t said anything about the hospital. I wouldn’t go regardless.
“Will you please thank him for me?” I asked. “He didn’t need to come here just for me.”
Ronan tilted his head in thought for a moment—click—then said to the doctor, “Ona ne khochet idti v bol’nitsu.”
That was the strangest Russian thank you I’d ever heard. “Bol’nitsu” must mean something else.
Kirill pursed his lips before responding.
“He says someone should wake you tonight. Protocol for head injuries.”
“Oh.”
“Are you here with anyone?”
I shook my head.
“You can stay here tonight. I will have someone wake you.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “You’ve already done too much for me.”
A sliver of displeasure passed through Ronan’s eyes. The quiet intensity could kill someone who wasn’t already used to the same look from their papa.
“You were assaulted in my alleyway. It is my responsibility to make sure you will be okay.”
No wonder he was standing so close to the back door. Did he hear my screams?
My thoughts and breath were cut off when he used his pen to lift the pendant sitting between my breasts. “Interesting necklace.”
He and my attacker were the only ones to ever notice it.
I’d never seen my papa wear anything less than a wifebeater and a pair of black slacks. Even then, that was only once, when I was eight years old and I glimpsed the nautical star tattoos on each of his shoulders. Of course, at that age, I wanted one for myself, so he gave me this necklace.
“It’s a family thing,” I breathed.
A thoughtful, “Huh,” was all Ronan said.
He lowered the pendant back to my skin, and the tiniest glide of his pen between my breasts set my pulse careening off its tracks. The can of soda slipped from my fingers. He caught it with his left hand, his gaze not leaving mine.