Ilyasov’s body is there now, too. It’s fitting, in a macabre way. He died in the same place our father did.
There was something else lost to the flames, too. I search her face for any sign that she already knows, but I get distracted. She’s beautiful. Perfect.
Her lips are pink and full, her green eyes are emeralds in sunshine, and her hair falls in loose curls down her shoulders and over the soft curves of her breasts. She looks incredible.
And I’m in a f*****g hospital gown.
Something else occurs to me. “Did they get rid of my clothes?”
“No,” she says with a strange frown. “Why?”
“Please, Arya.” It hurts to speak. But this is important. It needs to happen now.
Arya walks over to a drawer. She opens it and pulls a large plastic bag out of it. Reaching inside, she retrieves my charr
