PAVEL'S POV
Asya is bundled under the covers. I gave her an extra blanket earlier when she wouldn't stop shivering. Now, she's asleep, and I'm still awake, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing.
She was fine this morning, but after lunch, she got sick. Barely managed to get her to the bathroom in time. I held her hair while she emptied her stomach into the toilet, then helped her brush her teeth and carried her back to bed. Her fever spiked again, though not as high as before. I don't have a thermometer, so I kept pressing the back of my hand to her forehead every five minutes. It seemed slightly elevated, but manageable. An hour ago, the fever finally broke, and she stopped tossing in bed.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and type a message to Kostya, asking about the situation at the clubs. A minute later, a reply comes through, pure Russian curses and wishes for my slow, painful demise. Apparently, he's not thrilled about having to fill in for me.
