After thanking Goldberg, I usher him out and return to the living room, where Yulia is still sitting on the couch. Her face is back to its normal porcelain shade, but her eyes are glittering brightly. She’s upset—I can feel it, even though her expression is outwardly calm.
“Yulia.” As I approach, she looks away, her hair rippling down her back in a golden cloud. “Yulia, come here.”
She doesn’t respond, even when I reach for her and pull her up, forcing her to stand and face me. She also doesn’t look at me, her eyes focused on something just beyond my right ear.
Aggravated, I grip her jaw, turning her face so she has no choice but to meet my gaze. “I needed to make sure you’re okay,” I say harshly. It still bothers me on some level that I feel this way about her, that I want to heal her
