Chapter 3 I stand still, torn between misty eyes and the refrain running through my head on an endless loop. It's something like, What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Vesper? "Are you okay?" the man asks softly from where he kneels on the tile floor. He's running his huge hand over Luka's downy head again and again in gentle circles. The tenderness of his touch doesn't match his bulk, his clenched jaw. Nor, to say the least, the still-smoking gun lying next to him. The boy, Luka, nods. His swelling is already starting to ebb, enough that I can finally see the evidence of real features beneath all the puffiness. He has grey eyes. A deep, thoughtful grey, almost silver. "I-I was s-scared, Uncle Kovan." His little fingers curl into the neckline of his uncle's shirt. The baritone rumble replies, "You had nothing to be scared of. I promised you I would always keep you safe." I know that I'm not meant to hear this. Not any of it. He isn't talking in barely-above-a-whisper for Luka's benefit. But as much as I feel like I'm intruding on a private moment, it's also too beautiful to miss. There's something intensely moving about watching a child cling to the person they trust the most. I've seen it a million times in my time in the pediatric ward. That unconditional faith that a child puts in their caregiver. Their unreserved belief that they can fix anything. I felt that once, too. It's one of my earliest memories. It also happens to be one of my strongest. I had broken my arm and I was lying on a gurney in this very hospital, twenty-five years ago, clutching my useless hand and crying. It felt like the world was ending. I would never be able to climb the monkey bars again. I wouldn't be able to jump rope or high-five. I'd have to learn to write with my left hand. But then my father walked in-dressed in a white doctor's coat identical to the one I have on right now-and suddenly, it didn't feel like the end of the world anymore. Because immediately, I knew that, whatever was wrong with my arm, my father could fix. I looked at him then the way all my patients look at their parents. The way that Luka is looking at his uncle right now. And if a child can look at this dangerous, gun-wielding, tattoo-drenched criminal like that-the man can't be all that bad. ... Right? "Thanks for saving me," Luka mumbles into his chest. The man strokes the boy's hair, but his eyes-as green and mossy as a pond after a rainstorm-dart to me. "I had some help," he says graciously. "Let's thank the good doctor for bringing you back." Luka peeks at me from between his uncle's brawny forearms. "Thank you, Doctor," he says softly. I fold my hands in front of me. "It was my pleasure, Luka." He smiles, revealing a set of uneven teeth, laid on top of each other as though fighting for dominance. Despite the epinephrine stabilizing his system, his cheeks maintain a natural puffiness. He's soft and buttery with baby fat still, like a little cherub, albeit one clutched in the arms of a devil. "What's your name?" he asks. I'm on the verge of answering with my standard, "I'm Dr. Fairfax." But then my gaze goes to Luka's eagle-eyed uncle and the snake tattoo crawling up the side of his neck. "My name is Vesper," I say instead. "'Vesper'?" Luka repeats, his nose scrunching up in confusion. "That's a name?" I chuckle. "My mother was going through a religious phase when she had me. My father liked it because it was the name of a cocktail he enjoyed." 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, but he'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. But Kovan says "backup," as if these two men-or so I assume-whom I've never met and never would've wanted to meet are the answer to all the prayers I couldn't bring myself to whisper aloud. Osip. Pavel. Kovan. God, yes, these are dangerous names. I feel that certainty in the pit of my stomach-and the pit of my stomach is never, ever wrong. As I'm going through my downward spiral of oh-shit-I'm-gonna-die-here despair, Kovan is shaking his phone and snarling angrily at it like he might be able to intimidate it into working properly. "What's wrong?" I squeak out. "No signal." I gulp. "It happens sometimes. The cell reception gets crossed with all the medical equipment." He clicks his tongue in distaste. The phone disappears. Out comes the gun again. "Then I guess we're going out there blind." I swallow and taste only bitterness. Kovan snaps his fingers in my direction. "Get behind me." I notice he doesn't have to instruct Luka as to what to do. The kid has already disappeared behind him. He looks utterly unbothered. Just another day in the life, I suppose. What kind of life that is, I am terrified even to ask. I fall into line behind the two of them. It's strange to look at Kovan from the back once again, after all the madness of the last few minutes. This was the first view I had of him. I was deep in my own head then, still thinking about Jeremy and Shana and vicious revenge fantasies. Funny that the universe brought me the exact kind of man I'd like to sic on them. Someone massive and violent, someone unpredictable. I can't help but imagine Kovan cornering Jeremy in his office and brandishing that gun until the snub-nosed shithead pissed his tailored slacks. God, that'd be a sight to see. Instead, I'm getting a taste of my own medicine, no pun intended. The broad-shouldered devil is here for me. Not for Jeremy, not for Shana, but for me. And yes, I'm scared. How could I not be? I'm a rational, law-abiding citizen, and "workplace shootouts" are not something they prepared me for in medical school. But what's scaring me even more than my fear are all the parts of myself where that fear hasn't gone yet. The pit of my stomach, for example. The same part of me that says that Kovan is dangerous is sensing him and feeling something else in his presence. Something I haven't tasted in a very long time. Desire. He whips around and catches me gawking. Suddenly, it's not the endless span of his back I'm staring at, but his face. Evergreen eyes, jaw clamped tight as hell. That proud, straight nose, high cheekbones, the rasp of a few days' worth of beard growth. His lips are obscenely beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful part of him, which is really saying something. Thick and full, always caught halfway between a sneer and a smirk. I wonder what they'd look like if he ever laughed. Something tells me that's a blue moon kind of event. "Whatever happens," he breathes, "do as I say." I hesitate. He arches a brow. "Do you understand me, Vesper?" It's the way he says my name that dooms me in the end. Whereas his name is a buzzsaw in my mouth-Kovan, Kovan, so brutal on the tongue-my name passing those lips of his is sinful, decadent, bordering on pornographic. I've never been so aware of the texture of my skin, of every point of contact. You know that joke kids tell each other on the playground, I'm naked underneath my clothes? That's how I feel right now. Painfully aware that it's only a few, easily ruined layers of clothes that separate my body from his. Vesper. Like an invitation to make those layers disappear. Vesper. Like a promise that that's exactly what he'll do. I swallow past the rich sweetness of lust in my mouth, look up into those emerald eyes, and nod. "Yeah," I whisper. "I understand. I'll do anything you say."