A long second passes. He’s looking at my face. Not at my eyes, but at my face, the bruise and the stitches, the mess that’s hiding under the medical tape. I don’t like how it feels to be under his microscope.
“Stop looking at me like that. I’m not, like, a wounded puppy, or whatever.”
Matvei shakes his head. “I don’t look at puppies like this.”
He takes a step closer. Just one. Then he pulls the little wheeled stool out from under the counter, sits down on it, and rolls himself right up to the side of my bed like he’s my goddamn gynecologist.
“Excuse me,” I object. “That’s presumptuous.”
He doesn’t seem to give a s**t. Instead, he reaches out and touches the edge of the bandage on my cheek with one reverently gentle finger. “Who did this?” he whispers.
I pull my face away from his to
