From the way the doctor’s eyes flared in disapproval, I realized he understood that English phrase, and it wasn’t what he’d said. I answered, “Nineteen,” before remembering I turned twenty yesterday. The doctor released a tense breath. “Devyatnadtsat’. Yey devyatnadtsat’.” Nineteen. She is nineteen. Ronan didn’t look away from me. “Ya slyshal.” I heard. I hardly listened to the exchange because I was trying to remember what “moy kotyonok” meant. My, what? “Have you been . . . violated, Mila?” I watched the dark blue of his eyes grow black. For a moment, his question confused me. A cloud obscured the entire scene in the alley as if it happened to someone else and I’d merely watched it unfold. It didn’t seem real, and when I thought of it, I felt nothing but mild annoyance, which probably put me in the same crazy category as my papa’s tenants. I shook my head. “Good.” Just a single four-letter word, but it ballooned in the air like the most important thing in the room. His voice was so rough and soft. So composed and accented. So lenient in its delivery it slipped beneath my skin, melting the tension in my body like butter. I bet people went out of their way to listen to this man talk. “Do you have any pain besides your head?” I nodded, staring at him. A smile touched his lips. “Where?” “My side.” Ronan rose to his full height. As he and the doctor spoke, a boy—the one I saw carrying a crate of liquor—entered the room with my duffle bag in his hands. He dropped it beside the couch and sent a glance of disgust my way. Ronan eyed him in silent warning. The boy swallowed and turned to walk out of the room. “Kirill would like to take a look at you, if you will let him.” I nodded. When Ronan headed to the door, I got to my feet, fighting a spell of dizziness at the sudden move. “Wait,” I blurted. “Where are you going?”