“She was,” Milana agrees. “But as far as Ravil and his men are concerned, she’s your woman now. That’s all that matters. And that is precisely what’s going to force him to show his hand.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You have a plan?”
“I do,” she says with a half-hearted smirk. “But, fair warning—you’re not going to like it.”
I stop short when I walk into the medical room a few days after we get back from Mexico.
Milana is in there already. She’s leaning forward, resting her face in both her hands. I can tell from her lack of reaction that she hasn’t even noticed that I’ve just walked in.
Which in and of itself strikes me as weird. Milana notices everything.
I can smell the faint pervasiveness of surgical disinfectant—and beneath it, the thin veneer of desperation. Or maybe it’s sadness
