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The scene outside the car becomes a blur of motion, Moscow's nighttime streets slipping past as we make our way to safety. But as the adrenaline fades and the pain sharpens, my thoughts turn to Mariya. The fear that grips me isn't for my own life—it's the thought of leaving her in this tangled web we've woven, alone and unprotected.
“The closest safehouse is where Mariya is,” Oskar says.
“No,” I state the word without hesitation, ignoring the pain. “We’re not going to drag her into this.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Oskar says. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”
I want to protest more, but I know there’s no point. We drive on, and despite the pain, despite the blood, all I can think about is making sure she stays safe.
Chapter 11
Damien
The city streaks by in a blur of neon streetlights as Oskar's hands work swiftly, pulling at the fabric of my shirt to reveal the seeping wound on my side.
"Better get a good detailer on standby," I quip, attempting a grin that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "The interior's going to need a bit more than just a wipe down after this."
Oskar doesn't even crack a smile, his focus laser-like, as he tears open my shirt to assess the wound. The humor falls flat, the weight of the situation grounding any levity before it can take flight. His brow furrows as he presses down, trying to gauge the extent of the damage.
"Hold on, Boss," he says, his voice steady and commanding. “We're almost there."
Pain flares with each heartbeat, a cruel reminder of my mortality, but it's the thought of Mariya that consumes me. It's as if the promise of her presence is a balm to the physical agony that racks my body. An absurd notion, yet I can't deny it. The ache for her is stronger than the bullet's bite.
The car skids to a halt in front of the mansion, and I brace myself against the pain. Oskar and the guards are swift, carrying me as we burst through the front doors, a whirlwind of urgency and alarm.
"Damien!" Her voice cuts through the haze of pain, a beacon drawing me back from the edge of darkness.
My vision swims, but I focus on her face, a portrait of concern and beauty that anchors me. Mariya's eyes are wide, the color drained from her face, yet she doesn't run. Her gaze flickers to the door, and for a fleeting second, I brace for her departure, expecting her to seize the moment and escape. But she doesn't. Instead, she steels herself, shutting the door with a decisive click, barricading us away from the world.
"Mariya," I manage to say, a tide of pain threatening to drag me under.
"We need to get him to a bed—now!" Oskar's command is sharp, and they maneuver me through the house with practiced efficiency.
They carry me into a guest room located on the main floor, each step a new level of hell, but I'm fighting, holding onto consciousness with sheer will. The world narrows to the sound of my labored breathing and the quick thudding of my heart, a drumbeat marking time.
As they lay me down, the world tips and sways as if I’m a ship caught in a storm. Mariya's face is above me, her hands gentle yet trembling as they touch my skin. I want to tell her not to worry, that I'll be fine, but the darkness is a tide pulling me down.
"Stay with me," she whispers, her voice a thread I cling to.
She turns to Oskar, her resolve taking the form of action as she darts off to retrieve a first aid kit.
Oskar and the guards form a protective ring around me, their faces etched with worry. Through the haze of pain, I hear their collective sigh of relief as Oskar announces the verdict.
"It's clean, through and through."
Mariya returns, her hands slightly trembling as she holds the kit. She's no medic; that much is clear, but determination sets her jaw and steadies her hands as she begins to work. The sight of her like this—focused, caring, beautiful in her distress—coaxes a smile from me, one that's more of a wince than a gesture of amusement.
"Sorry about the mess," I murmur, my voice little more than a rasp.
She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, a fierceness there that belies her calm exterior. "Just hold still," she instructs, her hands surprisingly cool as they press against the heat of my wound.
The guards hover, ready to step in, but a silent communication passes between Oskar and me. He understands that this moment with Mariya, however strained, is ours.
The pain is sharp as she works, but it's distant, secondary to the concern I see in her gaze. Having someone care for me like this is a novel experience. It's always been about the Bratva, about being the strong one. But at this moment, with Mariya, I'm allowed a moment of vulnerability.
Her touch is gentle yet firm as she cleans the wound, her concentration never wavering. "You're going to be fine," she says, more to herself than to me, a mantra against the fear that lingers in the air.
I want to respond, to reassure her, but the darkness is encroaching again, a silent predator. I fight against it, clinging to the sound of her voice, the touch of her hands, the warmth of her nearness.
