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I’m only human.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

Anya gasps. “Really?”

“Temporarily,” I say. “I’m going to your house, getting checked by your suspiciously convenient private doctor, and then I’m leaving.”

“Yes,” Anya says.

“That was not an invitation to negotiate.”

She smiles anyway.

The doctor and Kirill help me to my feet. My left leg bears weight for exactly half a second before pain rips through my hip so violently that my vision grays.

“Fuck,” I gasp.

Anya's eyes widen.

“Sorry,” I say automatically.

“It's okay,” Anya says.

“No, it isn't,” Kirill says.

I glance at him. “Thank you, Father Kirill.”

He catches me around the waist before my knee gives out completely. For such a large man, he is surprisingly careful.

“I can walk,” I say.

“You demonstrably cannot,” Kirill says.

“I walked this morning.”

“I’m speaking about the present.”

Everybody is a comedian now.

Between Kirill and the doctor, I make it to the SUV.

Anya refuses to get in until I do.

The interior smells like leather and money, and the seats are soft enough that my entire apartment suddenly feels personally insulting.

I settle gingerly against one side, Anya slides in beside me, and Kirill sits across from us instead of taking the front.

That concerns me.

People don't generally sit facing you in luxury SUVs unless the vehicle is designed for security or diplomacy.

Or kidnapping.

I keep that thought to myself. Mostly because Anya is watching me.

The doors close, and the vehicle starts moving. For the first few minutes, Anya says nothing.

She stays pressed close to my good side and keeps glancing at my forehead as though she expects blood to begin spraying dramatically across the upholstery.