“U neye ovulyatsiya,” I explained. “Ona prakticheski iznasilovala menya.” She’s ovulating. She practically raped me. Kirill’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “I ty ne mog ot ne’ye otbit’sa.” And you couldn t fend her off, I see. I smiled. “Ona sil’neye, chem kazhetsya.” She is stronger than she looks. Mila got to her feet and aimed a glare at me. “Ovulating? You’re the one who’s always ovulating if you ask me.” I laughed. She must have not understood the “rape” part of the conversation, or she’d have a lot more to say. My amusement nose-dived when I remembered she was wearing nothing but my thin T-shirt. My gaze hardened. “Go put on some fucking pants, Mila.” She ignored me. Straight-up ignored me. If she thought the gunshot wound had made me so passive I wouldn’t carry her ass up those stairs, she was wrong. But her words momentarily paused me. “Will he be okay?” she asked. The doctor understood the English but unfortunately couldn’t translate his very superfluous response. “Yesli odin vystrel v ruku ub’yet yego, ya razvedus’ s lyubimoy zhenoy i trakhnu izvestnuyu shlyukhu s vich. Potom pereyedu v sibir’ i budu vyrashchivat’ repu, poka ne umru.” I laughed loudly. Mila frowned. “Was that a no?” “He said if one shot in the arm kills me, he’ll divorce his loving wife and fuck a famous whore with HIV. Then he’ll move to Siberia and farm turnips until he dies.” She pulled her lip between her teeth to hide a smile. “He thinks you’re immortal too.” I wanted to return the smile but didn’t. I’d escaped a lot of near-deaths. When I was younger, I thought even death didn’t want me. Now, I thought fighting my way out of the freezing Moskva had awarded me an iron-clad resilience to live. “Nyet, kotyonok. He’s just seen me much worse than this.” She swallowed as her eyes slid down my chest, like she was seeing the scars for the first time. Some of the marks were long and thin from contraband blades behind bars. A few of them were round from gunshots— one in my side, one in my back, one now in my arm, and another an inch