“Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream...”
I pulled her into my arms and sank with her to the floor, holding her tightly.
“Shh,” I whispered, pressing her against my chest and rocking her gently. “You’re okay now. It’s done.”
Still, she shook. Still, she whispered. That same broken litany.
“Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream...”
I held her tighter, buried my face in her hair, more terrified now than I’d been during the bloodbath downstairs. I didn’t know how to fix this or how to reach her.
She was falling apart in my arms, and it was my fault. Every second of it. I wanted to rip myself open just to piece her back together.
“Malaya, I’m here,” I murmured, brushing her hair back with trembling fingers. “It’s over. You did so fucking well. I’m so proud of you.”
Her lips kept moving, though her voice had quieted. I cupped her face gently, guiding her gaze toward mine. “Look at me. Ifyour mind’s trying to drag you under, you drag me down with you instead. I’m right here. Solid. Yours.”
Her fingers twitched against my chest, and I caught them, guiding them to grip my collar. “Grip tight. Make it impossible for me to breathe. Dig in until I bleed if you have to. You feel like you’re falling apart, you make me your fucking floor.”
When I wrapped my arms around her again, she clung to me like I was her last breath. “That’s it,” I whispered. “That’s my girl. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
We stayed locked like that for over an hour. I didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe any deeper than I had to. I just held her, whispering low against her hair that it was over, that I wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight. Not fucking ever.
My left arm went dead under her, pins and needles crawling through it like fire ants. The bullet wound started screaming again, slow, heavy throbs that matched my pulse. My shirt was drenched, blood spreading wider, soaking into her clothes where she pressed against me.
I didn’t care.
Not about the pain. Not about the blood. Not about the fact that my arm might be fucked by morning.
Nothing in this world—not a bullet, not a knife, not God himself—was going to make me let her go before she was ready.
Eventually, her trembling eased. The whispers stopped. She lay in my arms, drained but quiet, the panic finally giving way to something softer. It wasn’t peace, not yet—but maybe the first step toward it.
I carried her to bed, laying her down gently and pulling the duvet over her. She didn’t stir as I settled beside her, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath until sleep took her.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. I was out of the bed in a second, slipping into the bathroom and closing the door justenough to stay hidden. The bedroom door creaked open and a deep male voice called, “Kira.”
Oleg. One of Pakhan’s men. Of course he came to check on her. She didn’t respond—still dead asleep. He stepped inside, paused near the bed, probably checking her breathing, then murmured into his radio, “She’s asleep, boss.” A moment later, the door shut again. Fuck. That was close. If he’d taken one more step into that room, I would’ve had to put him down.
I exhaled and stared at myself in the mirror.
Blood. Dirt. Sweat. My hair was matted with it, and someone else’s blood had dried in thick, ugly streaks down the side of my neck and collarbone. My gaze dropped to my left arm.
Shit.
The wound had soaked through the shirt completely now. The fabric clung to my bicep, dark and wet, the sleeve stiff where the blood had started to dry. My fingers felt wrong too—slow, numb at the tips.
Yeah. That needed fixing.
I slipped quietly out of Kira’s room, closing the door without a sound. The hallway was dim and empty. Good. The last thing I needed was someone asking stupid fucking questions.
In the kitchen I grabbed a bottle of vodka and the small emergency kit from the cabinet. Then I headed down the corridor to the room they’d assigned to me near the men’s quarters after the lockdown.
I hadn’t used it once.
Tonight was apparently the night.
The bathroom light was harsh when I flipped it on. I locked the door behind me and peeled the shirt off slowly. The fabric stuck to the wound and when it pulled free I hissed through my teeth.
