—
When Dr. Guerera finally calls, I take it on the phone upstairs, not wanting to be far from Sasha. I feel as if I’m hovering in some kind of dream-state as I wait to hear what he has to say, terrified of the worst–that he still won’t know, or that it will be something that is hopeless without treatment.
“She’s been poisoned.” His voice is slow and careful as he speaks. “I haven’t been able to identify the toxin yet. Without that, it’s difficult to proceed, but I’m on my way now with a more generalized treatment for her, until we can hopefully identify it.” He pauses, letting the words hang there for a moment. “If her symptoms started after she ate, that’s likely the link–that the food was tampered with somehow. I’ll leave you to think about how that might have occurred.”
He clears his throat. “I’ll be there shortly with the treatments I can give her.”
As the line goes dead, I stand there, frozen as my heart sinks into my gut.We’ve been followed.Our trip to Italy was meant to keep Sasha safe, to throw the hounds off the scent, but it seems that it’s done the exact opposite.
It’s led them straight to her.
I hang up the phone roughly, striding back into her room. She’s as still and silent and pale as before, and I fall to my knees next to the bed, pressing my clasped hands to my forehead as my thoughts tangle themselves up inside my head.
Someone knows that we’re here–and it has something to do with the person who wants me dead.
I’d been right after all. Thisismy fault.
“I shouldn’t have given in,” I whisper, my voice thick and tormented. “I should have let Viktor take you to his safe house, as far from me as you could possibly get. I should never–”
I should never have given you more of a reason to want to be close to me.
It would have been better if I’d made Sasha hate me. As much as that would have torn me to pieces and broken her heart, it would have been better for her than what’s happened now–lying poisoned and possibly dying in a strange bed.
A broken heart would have healed. Whatever is happening to her now–I’m not confident that it will. AndthatI can’t live with.
“You can’t die,” I murmur, my throat choked with emotion. “Whoever did this, I’ll make him pay. But I want it to be for the attempt, not for his success.”
Swallowing hard, I close my eyes tight, reaching out for a faith that I’d thought I might be in danger of losing. “If You’re there,” I murmur, every ounce of myself poised to beg, to offer, to give anything, “don’t let her die. If You’ll save her, I swear, I’ll keep my vows. I’ll never touch her again.”
Until this very moment, at the prospect of making that promise, I hadn’t realized just how hard it would be. I’d told her on the plane that we couldn’t be together again, that we had to stay as nothing more than friends. Still, the reality of that hadn’t sunk in as deeply as now, when I’m on the precipice of making another vow that I’ll have to do my best not to break. A vow that I need tomean.
“I won’t make the same mistake again. I’ll protect her, keep her safe, and take her home when it’s time. But I won’t break my vow with her again. Iswear.”
My eyes burn with tears, desperate and unshed. I’ve fought to save the ones I love before–my brother, her, my friends’ wives–but there’s nothing here for me to fight but myself. My own selfish wants, needs, and desires.
They should be nothing in comparison with the possibility of making up for what I’ve done. “Don’t punish her for my broken vow,” I whisper into the darkness as I kneel by her bedside. “Don’t take it out on her. I’ll suffer every day for the rest of my life if I must–as long as she lives.”
And itwillbe suffering. I have no doubt about that. I’d been right when I’d told myself all those years ago to walk away from the girl offering to take my virginity before I left for seminary–that it would be a thousand times harder to keep my vow of celibacy knowing what I’d lost. It’s not just the thought of never feeling that pleasure again that makes me feel as if a rock has settled in my gut, but the thought of never feeling it withher. The thought of never touching Sasha again, of never hearing her small gasps or moans of pleasure, feels like an unquantifiable sacrifice.
But I know I’m wrong for her. And I won’t let her be the one to suffer for it.
Hours into the night, I’m so exhausted that I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, but I don’t want to leave her side. I stand slowly, sore and wrung dry, and slide into the bed next to her, my hand still wrapped around hers.
I have no idea what the morning will bring.
But whatever it does, I won’t leave her side.
3
SASHA
Iwake up feeling like death warmed over.
At least, I hope it’s that and not that I’m actually dead. I feel weak as a kitten, every part of my body hurting. My muscles and bones ache, and my skin feels sensitive to the touch–like I have the flu, except I’m not sure I’ve ever had the flu this bad. Honestly, it feels as if I’ve been beaten, and I have to repress a shudder at the memories of exactly why I know what that feels like.
If this is the afterlife, I’m not at all happy with the outcome.
It takes me a moment to open my eyes. I’m not sure if I’ll want to see what’s beyond them. My memories feel jumbled–everything after getting off the plane is foggy. Then I have vague recollections of Max, of his scent and his voice and his hands, but I can’t be sure that it wasn’t all just dreams or delusions. I don’t feel as if I can be sure of anything.