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He meets my eyes briefly, a glint of reassurance in his own. "If it were serious, there'd be a lot more blood. And she wouldn't be conscious to complain about it," he says, a hint of dry humor underlining the gravity of the situation. “But we will still have her tended to.”
With swift efficiency, he takes a clean cloth from a nearby table and presses it firmly against Helena's leg. He then fashions an impromptu bandage with precise folds, securing it tightly enough to stem the flow of blood but not so tight as to cause further pain.
"Keeping pressure on it will help until we get her to a hospital," he states, his voice a mixture of command and comfort.
I help Oskar to support Helena, her body leaning on ours as we navigate the debris of the café. Outside, the world seems to have tilted on its axis—people shout and scatter, the echo of the violence still ringing in the air.
The car pulls up with practiced precision, the door swinging open to welcome us into its sanctuary. Oskar ushers us inside with a deft hand; his expression etched with concern.
As we speed toward the hospital, the adrenaline begins to wane, leaving a tremor in its wake. My mind races, thoughts tangling like the threads of a poorly woven tapestry. Was this random? Or was it a warning shot, a message meant for Damien through me?
The uncertainty is a gnawing presence in the pit of my stomach, but as I hold Helena's hand, feeling the weak squeeze of her fingers, I'm anchored by a single, undeniable truth.
This world of shadows and violence is no place for love to bloom. And yet, amidst the gunpowder and blood, the thought of Damien brings a whisper of solace. It's his name that rings as a silent prayer on my lips.
Chapter 9
Damien
The phone's final beep signals the end of Oskar's urgent call, but his words still echo in the hollow space it leaves behind.
"She's safe, but her sister took a hit. They're at the hospital now."
I don't hesitate, my instincts propelling me toward action. The sleek black Mercedes S-Class awaits, and within moments, my driver is navigating the traffic with the skill of a man on the edge, understanding the urgency. Every red light is an eternity, every clear stretch a brief respite.
The car screeches to a halt in front of the hospital, and I’m out before it fully stops, my presence demanding attention as I approach the reception desk with a commanding air, the name Helena Minkov a sharp request on my tongue. The place is bustling, doctors and nurses zipping here and there.
The receptionist, a young woman with a sympathetic gaze, responds to my inquiry. "She's being treated now. You can wait in the family area," she directs, pointing to a section of chairs by the window.
I thank her with a curt nod, the words of gratitude feeling foreign and insufficient for the urgency that consumes me. My eyes scan the crowded hospital, searching for a face I've only seen once yet know by heart.
Then I hear it—a voice like a melody in a dissonant symphony. She's speaking to a nurse, her tone laced with concern. "Will she be all right? Please, she's all I have."
At that sweet sound, my gaze hones in on Mariya. She's a vision of worry and grace, her hands clasped as if in prayer. A part of me aches to cross the distance, to be the answer to her pleas.
But I can't, not yet. Instead, I lean against the wall as a silent observer and pull out my phone, my fingers flying over the keys to text Oskar. Stay with them, ensure their safety, I type, the protector in me rising to the forefront.
Mariya turns slightly, her eyes scanning the crowd, a flicker of hope crossing her delicate features. Our eyes lock for a fraction of a second, and I feel seen in a way that's both exhilarating and terrifying.
She's a living contrast to the sterile hospital backdrop, her beauty striking in its calm resilience. Even amidst the chaos, Mariya's presence is a captivating calm. Her light brown hair, sun-kissed with natural highlights, cascades in soft waves, framing her face with an effortless grace. There's an innate elegance about her, a poise that's as instinctual as it is mesmerizing.
Her eyes, a clear, expressive green, reflect a myriad of emotions as they scan the room—concern, love, and a flicker of fear. Yet they hold a strength, a determination that stirs something deep within me. She's the embodiment of everything pure and good, a beacon of hope in this antiseptic maze of white walls and beeping machines.
As she speaks, her voice—a tender, melodic whisper—carries across the distance, and it's as if the world stops spinning. It's a sound that grips my chest, yanking at something I thought was long buried. I'm rooted to the spot, utterly entranced, my heart racing with a mixture of emotions I can't quite name. It's a dangerous thing to feel so much, so quickly, for someone who's supposed to be nothing more than a means to an end.
The moment passes, and she's moving again, her attention back to her sister's plight. I pocket my phone, the metal cold against my palm, a reminder of the barriers that still stand between us.
The proximity is unnerving: me, the man shrouded in secrecy, and her, the unknowing center of my world. For now, however, I will remain on the sidelines, her guardian in the shadows, until destiny beckons us closer.
Blending into the throng of people coming and going, I watch as Mariya's delicate brow furrows with worry, the soft crease between her eyes hinting at the whirlwind of concern within her. She stands by the nurse's station, her figure a slender silhouette against the bright lights of the hallway, the very picture of anxious grace.
"Could you please tell me when she'll be ready to have visitors?" Mariya's voice reaches me, tinged with both urgency and a gentle strength that makes my chest tighten. It's clear in her tone that her sister is more than just family; she's a lifeline, perhaps the one thing in this new, gilded prison of hers that remains untainted by Bratva ties.
The nurse offers her a sympathetic smile, her words a balm to Mariya's fraught nerves. "They're finishing up now. It should only be a few more minutes. Your sister is a brave one; the wound was superficial."
The news seems to lift a weight off Mariya's shoulders, her posture relaxing ever so slightly. A sigh of relief escapes her, and though it's subtle, to me, it's as loud as a clarion call. The knowledge that she's safe, that her family is safe, brings a sense of peace I hadn't realized I was craving.
My gaze shifts to Oskar, who stands like a silent guardian beside her. Our eyes meet, and in a single glance, a silent conversation passes between us. With a subtle nod, I convey my command—keep my presence unknown. Oskar gives a nearly imperceptible dip of his head in acknowledgment, his stoic facade never slipping.
