“We lost seventeen men today,” I snarl venomously. “Seventeen men I swore to protect. Because of him.”

“You don’t even know that Adrian was behind the attack!”

If I could get to my feet, I would. I would walk over to her, grab her shoulders, and shake some goddamn sense into her.

“Jesus,” I growl. “You cannot be that naïve.” I rub my tired eyes. “I’ll ask you again: did you give him our location?”

“Of course not!” she practically explodes. “How can you even ask me that?”

“Because you were in contact with him this whole fucking time!”

She’s trembling like a leaf in a storm. “He was in contact with me, not the other way around. Yes, he sent me messages, but I didn’t reply to any of them. You took my phone. You can see for yourself.”

“You could have deleted the messages you didn’t want me to see.”

She stops short, the hurt mixing slowly into her eyes. “You… you really think I would have done that?”

“Adrian makes you stupid,” I say, my words as blunt as a slap. Even as I’m saying them, part of me hates what I know it’s going to do to her.

And sure enough, it does exactly as I predicted. Her face stiffens. Her shoulders slump. She hugs herself and turns to the side, rocking back and forth imperceptibly.

“Maybe,” she concedes softly. “But he does the same to you.” Then she turns and runs out of the room. She slams the door on her way out, but I still hear the sob in her throat.

It matches the sorrow in mine.

33

KOLYA

The anger I felt a moment ago seems so listless and pointless now. There’s a hollow pit at the bottom of my stomach, churning like the maw of some huge monster that won’t ever be satisfied, no matter how much grief I feed it.

It’s way too soon to be moving—even I know that. But I refuse to lie here like a fucking victim. I swing my legs off the bed and set my feet against the carpeted floors. I’m wearing so many bandages that it feels like I’m clothed despite the fact that I’m actually naked from the waist up.

I want nothing more than to go after June. But my pride refuses to let me. When the door opens again, I look up hopefully, wondering if maybe she has come back.

But she’s not the one that walks in.

“Milana.”

The sound of her heels is lost in the soft carpet that covers the entire floor. She’s wearing a curious expression. Part sympathetic, part forlorn, but mostly just inscrutable.

It feels like I just spoke to her, but when I glance out the window at the setting sun, I realize it’s been hours. Perhaps even longer. I must’ve slept through most of the day.

“How are you feeling?” she asks as she sinks into the bronzed chair that’s been pushed right next to the bed. It suggests that someone has been at my bedside while I slept. No prizes for guessing who.