PAVEL'S POV
Asya is bundled under the covers. I gave her an extra blanket earlier when she wouldn't stop shivering. Now, she's asleep, and I'm still awake, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing.
She was fine this morning, but after lunch, she got sick. Barely managed to get her to the bathroom in time. I held her hair while she emptied her stomach into the toilet, then helped her brush her teeth and carried her back to bed. Her fever spiked again, though not as high as before. I don't have a thermometer, so I kept pressing the back of my hand to her forehead every five minutes. It seemed slightly elevated, but manageable. An hour ago, the fever finally broke, and she stopped tossing in bed.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and type a message to Kostya, asking about the situation at the clubs. A minute later, a reply comes through, pure Russian curses and wishes for my slow, painful demise. Apparently, he's not thrilled about having to fill in for me.
When I called the pakhan earlier today to request a few days off, I suggested Ivan take over. Roman laughed and said he'd give the clubs to Kostya; it was about time he did actual work instead of chasing women and burning rubber.
Kostya started alongside his brother, helping with the Bratva finances at barely twenty. Always a problem child, yet Roman has a soft spot for him as the youngest in the inner circle. He's everyone's little brother, constantly exploiting that position, and I just hope he doesn't get any ideas while covering for me. Strip clubs? I'd strangle him myself.
Asya stirs, and I quickly press my fingers to her forehead. No fever—thank fuck. She grabs my hand and places it over her chest. Looks like I'm sleeping in the same bed again. I sprawl out next to her, watching her face. I understand why she doesn't want me calling her brother… and yet, I don't at all. Wouldn't it be easier for her to be home, with her family? I've never been part of a family, but I know they'd do better for her than I can.
I reach out and turn off the lamp, closing my eyes. Sleep refuses to come. How did Asya end up in Chicago? Who kept her? Who did this to her? Is there any connection to Fyodor's daughter? So many questions, zero answers.
I tilt my head and watch her sleeping form. She's still clutching my hand; delicate fingers wrapped around mine. I'll have to buy groceries first thing, can't let her live on bread and marmalade for days. Toiletries. Clothes. Though… I kind of like her in my T-shirts.
A brown strand of hair falls across her face. I reach out, brushing it gently away. Why did I let her stay?