Maybe, beneath his extremism and violent outbursts, there’s something there that’s compassionate. Something that allows him to be gentle with me when I’m hurt or when Nikolas needs him.
Matvei is more than an enigma. He’s the enigma inside of a locked chest. Even after you find the hidden key, the true Matvei is still locked behind a puzzle. Nothing he does is predictable.
Especially not our rendezvous in the hospital.
I still haven’t really processed that. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, but maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was a good thing that he had my face pressed into the wall so I couldn’t see the emotion in his eyes. What would I have seen there? Lust? Hunger? Possessiveness?
Or something else?
Like… caring?
It seems like the closer I get to him, the more questions I have. But maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world.
Maybe Matvei and whatever it is that we have now is worth looking more into. Maybe I’ll find the answers I’m searching for.
Holzman Hospital is going to be the bane of my existence. After coming here for Dad and now for Nikolas, I’m ready to never see the place again. If it weren’t for the fact that I also need to have my own burns checked out, I would probably have opted to spend the day at home reading.
When we arrive, Matvei strides up to the desk and tells the nurse that we’re here for our scheduled appointment. She must remember him from before when he nearly threatened to have her job if she didn’t take good care of Nikolas, because she nods obediently and types away at her computer.
“The doctor will be with you in a few minutes,” she says, not even meeting his eyes. I can feel the fear rolling off her in waves.
“Good.”
As we take our seats, Nikolas goes to play with some of the toys in the waiting room, careful of his burns. He’s resilient, I’ll give him that. I just worry that he’s repressing his pain and fear from the burns just like he’s repressing whatever happened to his parents. It seems like he keeps all those big feelings locked away inside some dark part of himself.
In that sense, he reminds of his uncle.
I turn to look at the bad influence in question, but his eyes are glued on a doctor across the room. The man is tall, just over six feet, with blond hair and light blue eyes. He’s speaking with a nurse.
The moment he finishes and he looks in our direction, his eyes narrow.
Immediately, I feel the iciness between them. Matvei tenses, like he’s prepared to do something, but before either of them can say anything to one another, another nurse appears at the doctor’s side and he follows her down the hall without so much as a backwards glance.
“What was that about?” I ask, looking between him and the hallway the strange man just disappeared down. “Who was that?”
“Chris Walter.”
“You know him?”
“He used to work for me,” Matvei says, glancing at me. “We kept him around the house, paid him more than we should have, and in return, he kept his mouth shut about our business. Bastard was shadier than we thought, so I let him go. He’s been pissed at us ever since.”
I nod slowly. Of course, they’d have to have doctors in their back pocket. With all the dangerous things the Morozov Bratva gets involved with, there’s bound to be injuries, and not having to answer probing questions about bullet wounds and bloody knuckles must be a luxury they’re willing to splurge on.
“He’s kind of scary,” I comment.
“He got too cavalier for my tastes. He kept asking questions and passing judgment when he needed to keep his mouth shut and do the job we paid him. Self-righteous asshole.” Then a suspicious look crosses Matvei’s face. “A man like that might have a vendetta against me.”
“Do you really think—”
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head and looking away. “I don’t know anything anymore. I just wish I wasn’t here right now.”
“Me too.”
A minute of silence goes by before either of us speaks again.
“My mother spent quite a bit of time in this hospital.” Matvei’s voice is soft and distant, like he’s remembering a nightmare.
I venture a look in his direction. “What for?”
His eyes are hazy, unfocused. “Drugs.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I don’t know what to say that might make him feel better, but I understand his pain. “Dad’s here regularly. He’s addicted to gambling and