Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
His expression undergoes a subtle hardening. “Yes, he’s a fan of hard liquor. Vodka, cognac, whiskey. Ruslan likes that stuff too, but I don’t.”
It’s strange how relieved I am. I didn’t even realize I was concerned about it. “What about pot?” I ask, doing my best to keep a light tone. “Or… other substances?”
“Not my thing. I smoked a joint once when I was thirteen, but I didn’t like how it made me feel, so I haven’t tried anything stronger.”
I stare at him, my relief battling with amazement… and more than a little embarrassment. Because I’ve tried a lot of stuff. Some more than once. Never enough to get truly addicted, but with my headaches providing a ready excuse, there were definitely times when I skated on the edge, when I stared into the abyss and knew that it would take only another pill or two to dive in and not emerge. And I wasn’t always the one to step back from that edge. Sometimes, it was my brothers who pulled me back, forced me to stop when I might not have on my own.
How is it that Alexei is so much stronger than I am? He grew up with many of the same pressures, same temptations. In our circles, illegal drugs and expensive alcohol are offered at parties as frequently as hors d'oeuvres. One would have to be a saint to resist each time, and Alexei Leonov certainly doesn’t qualify as that.
And yet… I can’t deny that there’s something perversely wholesome about my husband. Not soft. Not sweet. And definitely not good in the traditional sense of the word. But maybe… not entirely bad. Now that I’ve gotten to know Alexei better, it’s easy to believe what Ruslan told me about their childhood, how Alexei took care of him and their sister more like a parent than an older brother.
It’s easy to believe that because he takes care of me in much the same way.
As if I were precious.
As if I were truly his.
Weeks pass. One, two, then somehow three, four, five, eight. Time moves both agonizingly slowly and disorientingly fast, the drag of never-ending treatments interspersed with days during which fatigue knocks me out like anesthesia. I feel like all I do is eat (and fight to keep the food down), sleep (and struggle to sleep), and undergo scans and treatments. And through it all, Alexei is there, comforting me, lending me his strength when I need it most.
Toward the end of treatment, he brings in Vika, and with the doctors’ approval, she uses her needles to provide me with relief from the nausea and the headaches, so I start to feel better. Or maybe I’m feeling better because the combination of radiation and immunotherapy is actually working—something the doctors gleefully inform us of after yet another scan.
“I can’t say that all the cancer cells are gone,” Fasseau says with a big, beaming smile. “But they are not currently detectable on the highest-resolution images we have.”
At my side, Alexei’s ever-present tension seems to ease. “So the chemo—”
“Is not necessary at this time,” Fasseau confirms.
My heart leaps sideways, then begins to beat in a new, oddly unsettled rhythm as I stare at the doctor, unable to utter a word through the growing tightness in my throat. The rational part of me understands and believes what the doctor is saying, but there’s something deeply irrational inside me as well, something that doesn’t dare to embrace so much as a sliver of hope.
“So she’s in remission?” Alexei’s voice sounds strange as well. Rough and almost… choked.
When I slant a glance at him, his onyx eyes are glittering with excessive brightness. I swallow and look away, not ready to think about what it means. Instead, I return my attention to the doctor as he answers in an upbeat tone, “It appears to be that way. There are also no markers of inflammation to suggest an autoimmune response to the treatment.”
More good news. And I… don’t feel right about it.
Not happy like I should be.
Not even relieved.
Instead, a heavy pressure is building behind my eyes, and the squeezing tightness descends from my throat into my chest.
I take a breath to combat the suffocating sensation, but my lungs don’t seem to work correctly. So I try again, dragging in whatever air I can. But there’s not enough air. Not even close to enough. My ears ring, my vision blurring as if I were underwater, and I grab Alexei’s hand in panic, squeezing it with all my might.
Instantly, his gaze flashes to mine, full of undisguised concern, and as I look into those dark orbs, the suffocating tightness releases its hold on me, letting oxygen rush into my starved lungs.
Only then do I realize that my vision has blurred because of tears.
I’m crying, and the tears are not happy ones.