Page 9 of Savage Don

“Good,” I say.

Kirill looks at her. “No.”

I turn my head. The movement sends a sharp bolt through my skull.

I suck in a breath and regret that too, because apparently my entire body has entered into some kind of coordinated rebellion.

“Don’t move,” the man beside me says.

“I’m gathering that,” I say through my teeth.

His name is Kirill. I know that much because Anya has said it approximately seventeen times in the last two minutes, usually with increasingly frantic instructions about what he should be doing to prevent my imminent death.

I’m fairly certain I’m not dying.

Fairly.

My head is bleeding, my hip feels like somebody has taken a sledgehammer to it, and my left shoulder is producing a deep, nauseating throb every time I breathe, but I remain conscious enough to recognize that dying would be an unreasonable escalation to an already terrible Tuesday.

Anya crouches beside me on the pavement, both of her small hands wrapped around mine. Her face is wet with tears. Not the elegant kind of crying they give children in movies, either. Her cheeks are blotchy, her nose is pink, and little hiccupping breaths keep catching in her chest.

“I want to take her home,” Anya says.

Kirill's expression doesn't change. “We need to have her examined first.”

“At home,” Anya insists.

“No,” I say immediately.

Her gray eyes snap toward me.“Yes,” Anya insists.

I blink at her.“That’s generally not how consent works,” I reason.

Her mouth trembles.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

I have survived unemployment, student debt, a breakup that should probably qualify me for combat pay, and three separate landlords who considered mold an aesthetic feature.

I’m not being defeated by an eight-year-old's lower lip.

“Anya,” Kirill says, his voice becoming gentler, “Ms. Bennett may prefer to go to a hospital.”

“She has to come with me,” Anya says, her voice breaking.

Then she wails. Actually wails.

The sound comes out of her so suddenly that every adult within ten feet turns.

“I don't want her to go!” Anya cries. “She got hurt because of me!”

Oh, God. I close my eyes. This is emotional blackmail, and she doesn't even know she's doing it.

“Hey,” I say.

Anya keeps crying.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” I say.