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“Sorry,” he mutters, but he keeps working until he’s satisfied the cut’s clean. Then he goes back into the kit for a small, sealed packet of antibacterial ointment and the largest Band-Aid he can find. “You should have someone look at this when we get back to town. You might need stitches. But hopefully, this will keep you together until then.”
“Thanks,” I say as he settles down beside me.
Closing the first-aid pack, he turns his eyes back to the fire.
“Did you get hurt?” I ask, the thought suddenly dawning on me. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, I hadn’t noticed him in any pain, and I feel bad that it only just occurred to me when he’s spent time tending my wound.
“A few cracked ribs, maybe, but otherwise, I’m fine.”
And he carried me? I feel terrible. “Are you sure? I should take a look,” I offer, guilt urging me to do something.
“What, are you a doctor?” he teases—or at least, I think he’s giving me a hard time.
“No, but I’ve seen broken ribs before.”
“Really?” His eyebrows lift in surprise.
I roll my eyes. “How does that shock you when you’ve met my brother?” I point out. “Sometimes, I wonder if that idiot has a death wish.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my stomach drops. Because Viktor really might not have survived tonight.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Mishka murmurs, seeming to read my anxiety in my sudden silence. “And in the meantime, it’d be great if you’d check my ribs.” His fingers go to his shirt, and he swiftly unbuttons it.
I know he’s only doing it to distract me from my worry, but it turns out to be an impressively good tactic.
As soon as his shirt falls open, I’m rewarded with the impressively sculpted muscles of his chest and abs. Beneath the rather intricate and haunting depiction of a horned demon face with a long tongue that occupies most of his chest, I find a dark bruise spreading across his ribs along his right side and blending with the ink that decorates his body.
From the looks of it, I would say he’s broken more than a few ribs. He must be in serious pain. But if he is, he doesn’t show it. That’s not my biggest concern, however.
“Mishka, this is bad,” I breathe, my fingers hovering over his mottled flesh. I want to assess the damage further, but I have no doubt that anywhere I touch will be painful. “This looks like you could have internal bleeding or something.”
Whatever the full extent of his injury is, it’s definitely worse than he let on.
12
MISHKA
“I’m fine, Alina. Really. I’ve had much worse,” I insist as she fusses over me anxiously. I’ve had broken ribs before, and while they suck, they also heal. I’m sure I’ll survive.
Still, I’m touched by her concern.
“You’ve had worse than a side full of broken ribs?” she demands incredulously, gesturing to the bruise that’s spread along my right side. She has horror written across her pale face. “I think you have to tell me the story now.”
“You mean aside from just another day in the office?” I joke. “My line of work is rather… physical,” I point out. And working for a Bratva isn’t exactly the safest job. I’ve been shot at, stabbed, hit with a lead pipe. People get creative and desperate when their lives and limbs are on the line.
Alina raises her eyebrows as if to say that my statement is rather obvious, considering we just rolled about fifty times down a hill after getting shot at while I was working. Still, her blue eyes hold mine, urging me to tell her the story she’s waiting for.
Sighing, I shrug. “Honestly, I can’t count the number of broken bones I’ve had. My old man gave me more than I care to remember. He was an abusive prick who beat the hell out of me and my brother every chance he got while we were growing up.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them because I just gave her a window into my past—into Sascha. I just opened a door into the reason I’m here, and I don’t want to talk about Sascha because I really don’t want to lie to Alina. But from the way her eyes widen, I know she’s not going to let it go at that.
“That’s terrible,” she says. “And your mother couldn’t stop it?” Her face is that mask of sympathy that girls always get when I talk about my rough past.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
None of them ever quite know what to say after that. There’s not much to say, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like anyone can fix my childhood, and it made me what I am today—resilient, relentless, and full of rage.
“No,” I say. “I mean, she died when I was young, so she couldn’t have done anything.” Trying to redirect the conversation, I jump straight to the end of the story. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I left home as soon as I legally could. Never looked back,” I state, shrugging to mask the hurt as I button my shirt back up. “It’s in the past now.”
Alina assesses me with an unnervingly insightful gaze, and despite my best efforts to keep my distance, it’s like I’m drawn to her, wishing she would say something when I know I won’t want to hear what comes next.
