Her face wavered into view through the fire, and something cool touched his face. “I am here. Stay with me, lyubov moya. Here. Drink.”

Lyubov moya—my love. How long had he waited for her to say such words to him? He felt something hard press against his lips, and then water touched them. He opened his mouth, greedy for the cool liquid. But after a few swallows, it turned from dribble to torrent, and he coughed, pushed against it.

“Sorry.” A clank of glass on wood. Then she was back, his princess, dabbing at him with a washcloth. Even through the haze of smoke and fire, he could see the worry in her eyes.

Had she really called him her love? Or had it been only part of the folktale? He tried again to lift his arm, and this time he got it high enough to snag her hand. “Nadya. My princess.”

Her laughter soothed away some of the heat. Strange how that just made him more keenly aware of the aching in every limb, every muscle. “Now I know you are delirious. No one would ever call me a princess.”

The water he’d sipped reached his stomach—and set it to churning. He felt the heave working its way up from his core, and hard as he tried to subdue it, he couldn’t. He could only roll onto his side, toward the edge of the bed.

She had a basin there, waiting for him. And she held it as he retched, emptying his stomach of what felt like life itself. Not food—he hadn’t eaten, that he could recall. Just the water and bile.

Had he the energy, he would have been mortified. But he hadn’t. And as she eased him back to his sweat-soaked pillow, he had a vague recollection of having done this many times before. This time wouldn’t be any great shock to her. “Sorry.”

Her fingers caressed his forehead, cool and soft and welcome. “Don’t apologize. Just get well, Zhenya. Do you hear me? I won’t have you dying. I won’t.”

She’d used his nickname. He wanted to grin. To tease. To ask if she only needed him to help her fulfill their mission, or if it was something more. If perhaps she was finally ready to admit that she loved him.

Mission. What was it? Something . . . something urgent. Something . . . What day was it? Zivon. He needed to meet Zivon. Get the photo. The names.

He meant to ask. But the words wouldn’t come to his lips. Maybe because he was too tired, already drifting away.