Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
"Make it fast! If I think of anything else, I’ll call you!" she yells, applying pressure to the spasm in my back.
She presses her thumbs in circular motions—one clockwise, one counterclockwise.
It feels so good.
I breathe, clutching the pillow as another spasm comes. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I need to get cleaned up.
"We’ll get you what you need," Polina says quietly. "Let your body do what it’s meant to. This will bring relief from the pain. Just let yourself go through it. We’ll draw a bath when this subsides. I promise, it will get better. You’ll be okay. I’m so sorry."
She says it so softly.
She doesn’t ask questions.
She doesn’t pry.
And in that moment, she’s doing something that brings tears to my eyes for an entirely different reason.
She’s humming something—soft and pretty and soothing—in Russian.
Something I’ve never heard before.
Between the waves of pain, she runs her fingers through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. She rubs my back, brings ice water to my lips, and every time the spasms start up again, she does that miraculous pressure-point massage that makes it bearable.
And she’s right.
I’m a mess, but the pain is gradually easing.
"Have you always had this intensity around your cycles?" she asks.
I shake my head. “Only recent years.” And I know exactly why but don’t want to tell her. If I tell her, and she tells Matvei…
"It’s often genetic," she says.
And before I can stop myself, I shake my head again.
No.
That’s not why.
“Surgery?”
I shake my head again. Too late, I realize I may have told her more than I meant to by default.
She’s quiet for long minutes, massaging my tense muscles.
"Someone did this to you," she says in a low voice.
And I realize, when I shake my head to deny it, it’s too late.
She knows.
When I don’t deny it, maybe it’s confirmation.
But thankfully, Polina doesn’t ask any more questions.
A heavy knock sounds on the door.
"My god," she says with a laugh. "Matvei does nothing half-assed, huh? He’s always been that way, from what I’ve heard."
"Open up!”
“You can come in."
Matvei walks in, carrying so many bags it looks like it’s Christmas morning.
I smile, shaking my head.
"Did you buy out the store?"
He scowls. "It’s Sunday. They weren’t open. Stupid fucking laws."
I bite back a smile, even as the pain lingers.
"Do I want to ask how you got everything?" Polina asks, her eyes twinkling.
He smirks at her. "You told me to get this shit, and I got it. So, no."
"Come here, Matvei. Your hands are bigger than mine, so you’ll probably do a better job than I will. When the contractions happen, you need to put counterpressure right here."
She takes his hands, placing his fingers exactly where they need to go.
"Pressing here will help alleviate some of the pain while I get what she needs, okay?"
When his large hands take the place of hers, she’s right.
His hands are stronger.
At first, he’s tentative, as if he doesn’t want to hurt me.
"It’s okay," I whisper. "You can press harder. It feels good."
Polina is rifling through the bags, making sounds of approval.
"Oh my god. You even got the prescription meds already. Did you wake the doctor for this?"
He scowls at her. "Of course I did."
I almost smile even through my pain. I can imagine his heavy fist pounding on a door, a gun at a hapless doctor’s head.
"Of course you did," she repeats. "Just like any of you guys would have."
"You bought steak and chocolate? How many places did you go?"
"As many as I had to."
"All the years that I’ve known you, I never actually thought I’d say this—but you’re sweet. This is sweet."
I smile when he grunts.
They keep talking, but I don’t hear because the pain is rising again. I try to stifle a whimper.
It starts slow, creeping over me in waves, then—
The band around my middle tightens.
Harder.
Excruciating.
My back spasms.
I clench my teeth together.
"Breathe," Polina says, her hand in mine. "Matvei."
His huge hands span my back, pressing against the spasms.
Relief.
Blessed relief.
Polina tears through the bags, shakes pills into her hand, and presses them to my lips.
There are more than I expected.
At least four. Maybe six. I lose track.
She presses a straw to my mouth.
"Swallow. This will help."
Then something large and warm presses across my back, replacing his hands.
I miss his hands. They’re comforting.
I shiver as he lays his hands on top of it, his fingers wrapping around where the material ends and my bare skin begins.
That’s better.
"This is a heating pad. It’s going to help. Just let the heat do its magic. This will make you feel a lot better soon."
"Physical touch helps. It soothes," she says softly.
At first, he touches me as if I’m about to break—as if even the slightest contact will send me spiraling into more pain.
But it doesn’t.
It feels good.
The way he’s touching me now…
His hand on my neck, soothing, his rough fingers grazing over tender skin. He pushes damp hair off my forehead, off my neck, the same way Polina did.