“Was not dead. Was protecting you.”
“By almost dying yourself.” He resumed cleaning the wound. Hands steady again through will alone. “That's not protection, Viktor. That's sacrifice. And I can't...” He stopped. Started again. “I won't lose someone else. Not like that. Not for me.”
The words settled heavy in the space between us. Loaded with history I didn't fully know. With grief he carried like armor.
“Why are you doing this?” The question came out before I could stop it.
His hands stilled. “Doing what?”
“Being kind to me.” I gestured at the medical supplies, at his careful touch, at the way he'd come here instead of staying safe in his own chambers. “We argued. Days ago. You were angry. You have every right to be angry still. But you are here. Touching me gently. Taking care of wounds I earned protecting you.”
He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced the edge of clean gauze at my arm. Thoughtful. Deliberate.
“We may disagree on things,” he said finally. Voice low. Steady. “We may fight about security protocols and boundaries and what you can or cannot do. But you are still human, Viktor. You are hurt. And Iwould help you in any way I could, regardless of whether we are angry with each other or not.”
Something in my chest cracked. Split open. Let warmth seep in where I'd kept it frozen for years.
“You were shot because of me,” he continued. His eyes met mine. Clear. Honest. Devastating. “You put yourself between me and bullets. Multiple bullets. You bled because you chose to protect me. The least I can do is make sure those wounds are properly cared for.”
“Is what I'm here to do?—“
“No.” He cut me off. Gentle but firm. “You're here to keep me safe. Not to die for me. There's a difference.”
“Sometimes those are same thing.”
“They shouldn't be.” He finished wrapping my arm. Created a support sling that held it immobile but comfortable. “You matter, Viktor. Not just as my bodyguard. As a person. And people who matter deserve to be cared for when they're hurt.”
The words settled into my bones. Made a home there. Made me want things I'd stopped letting myself want years ago.
“You are good at this,” I said. Voice rough. “Too good. How many times have you patched yourself?”
“More than I can count.” He stood. Started gathering supplies. Cleaning up. “Palace life isn't as safe as people think. Training accidents. Riding falls. The occasional run-in with sharp objects.” His mouth curved slightly. “I learned basic field medicine when I was sixteen. Seemed practical.”
“Practical.” I watched him move around the room. Confident. Comfortable in this space that was mine but felt like ours. “Most princes learn languages and diplomacy.”
“I learned those too.” He moved to the sink. Washed his hands. Methodical. Thorough. “Just added some useful skills to the repertoire. Never know when you'll need to patch someone up.”
“Or yourself.”
“Or myself.” He dried his hands. Turned to face me. “Speaking of which. Are you sure Dr. Amir checked everything? Because you looklike you're about to pass out and I'd prefer you didn't do that while I'm here to witness it.”
“Am fine.”
“You keep saying that. I don't think it means what you think it means.” He moved back to stand in front of me. Concern etched in every line of his face. “Were you hit anywhere else? Anything Dr. Amir might have missed because you were being stoic and Russian about it?”
Despite the pain, I almost smiled. “Stoic and Russian?”
“You know what I mean. The whole 'is just flesh wound' thing while you're actively bleeding.” He crouched in front of me. Eye level. “I need you to be honest. Did you take any other hits tonight?”
I considered lying. Decided against it. “Bruised ribs on right side. From impact when we hit the ground. Nothing broken.”
“Let me see.”
“Sebastian—“
“Let me see, or I'm calling Dr. Amir back and you can explain to him why you're bleeding through his careful work.”
I lifted my shirt. Showed him the blooming bruise spreading across my ribs. Purple and yellow. Angry. He touched it gently. Testing. I winced.
