Page 103

Xeniya Morozova

Age 35

Present

My head pounded like an anvil. Unrelenting and tight. Each throb pulsed like the sound waves at a club. You know those speakers that light up with every drumbeat?

It was beautiful in a club.

Intoxicating.

In my bed?

I wanted to die.

My throat was dry, my voice scratchy, like I’d spent seven hours screaming and dancing at a club.

But again, without any of the fun.

Every muscle in my body ached.

My consciousness was a whisper. I was awake, but barely.

I had no idea how many hours had passed since Neeve had rescued me.

But I did know was that someone was slapping my face and tapping my cheek, begging me to wake up.

“Wake up. He’s here,” Neeve said through clenched teeth, her voice hushed but urgent.

She splashed water on my face, and I blinked repeatedly.

“What the fuck?” I croaked.

Then she pressed a hot washcloth to my forehead and rubbed some kind of cream onto my collarbone.

An icy sensation spread through my chest, followed by the unmistakable scent of menthol, mint, and pine.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “This is not fucking helping my headache.”

“Severin is here, and he wants to see you.” Neeve ran a makeup sponge over my cheeks before shoving my red wig onto my head. “I told him you have a terrible case of the flu and that he should come back. He insisted on seeing you, trying to be charming, I’d assume.”

She fussed the wig until I looked like I’d been bedridden for days.

“Your fucking white hair.”

“How many days has it been?” I groaned.

“Three and a half,” Neeve answered.

Neeve pulled out my freckle pen and tapped my face repeatedly until I looked believable as an Irish ginger.

“Now, act sickly. Shouldn’t be hard, considering.”

“Fuck you.”

Neeve crossed to the door and opened it, letting Severin in.

He wore a perfectly pressed black suit. He walked slowly to the chair beside my bed, pulled it out, and sat down.