"You're not fine! You're covered in blood and you passed out!" Her hands finally land on my chest, pressing gently like she's checking to make sure I'm real. "You need a hospital."
"No hospital." I push myself up onto my elbows, ignoring the way the room spins slightly. The movement sends fresh pain shooting through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and force myself to sit up completely. "I'm fine, Mariya. It was just a second."
"You hit the floor hard enough that everyone within a block probably heard it!" She's practically yelling now, her fear transforming into anger. "You could have a concussion. You could?—"
"I don't have a concussion." I reach up with my good hand and cup her face, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone. Her skin is soft and warm, and the contact grounds me more than anything else could. "I promise. I'm okay."
She doesn't look convinced, but she stops arguing. Her hands move to my shoulders, carefully avoiding the wound, and she helps me get to my feet. The world tilts dangerously for a moment, but I lock my knees and force myself to stay upright.
I will not pass out again. Not in front of her.
My men have the surviving attackers on their knees in a line, hands zip-tied behind their backs. Blood stains the floor around them, dark pools spreading from the bodies of their deadcompanions. There are five left alive, all of them staring at the ground with the kind of resignation that comes from knowing you're fucked.
I press my hand against the wound in my shoulder, feeling warm blood seep between my fingers. The pressure helps, but I know I need medical attention soon. Still, this can't wait.
Mariya stays close to my side as I walk toward the kneeling men, her presence both comforting and distracting. I can feel her eyes on me, watching for any sign that I might collapse again. It makes me stand straighter, move with more confidence than I actually feel.
I stop in front of the first man, a thick-shouldered bastard with a broken nose and blood running down his chin. He doesn't look up when I approach.
"You have two choices," I say, my voice carrying across the warehouse. "Join my family, swear loyalty to me, and live. Or refuse and die right here."
The man's head snaps up, his eyes wide with surprise. He wasn't expecting mercy. None of them were.
"I…" He swallows hard, his gaze darting to his companions. "I'll join. I swear loyalty."
"Good." I move to the next man, a younger guy who can't be more than twenty-five. "And you?"
"I'll join," he says immediately, his voice shaking. "Whatever you want. I'll do it."
One by one, they all make the same choice. Not surprising. Most men will choose life over death when given the option, especially when death is staring them in the face with a gun.
By the time I finish with the last one, my vision is starting to blur at the edges. I've lost more blood than I thought, and the adrenaline that kept me going is fading fast. But I don't let it show. I turn to my second-in-command and give him instructions for processing the new recruits, then finally allow Mariya to guide me toward the SUV.
The drive back to the estate passes in a haze. Mariya sits pressed against my good side, her hand resting on my thigh like she's afraid I'll disappear if she's not touching me. I want to tell her I'm fine, that she doesn't need to worry, but the words stick in my throat.
Because the truth is, I like having her worry about me. I like the way she keeps glancing at my face, checking to make sure I'm still conscious. I like the protective fury in her eyes when she looks at my shoulder.
I love that she cares.
By the time we reach the estate, my shirt is soaked with blood, and my shoulder throbs with every heartbeat. The on-call doctor is already waiting when we arrive, summoned by one of my men during the drive. He's a thin, nervous man in his fifties who's been patching up Bratva soldiers for decades.
Mariya refuses to leave my side as the doctor leads us to one of the guest rooms. She hovers near the bed while I strip off my ruined shirt, her eyes tracking every movement. When the doctor starts cleaning the wound, she moves even closer, watching him with narrowed eyes like she doesn't trust him not to fuck it up.
The sight is so absurd, so unexpectedly protective, that I start laughing.
Both the doctor and Mariya turn to stare at me with identical expressions of concern. The doctor's hands pause mid-motion, a blood-soaked gauze pad held in the air.
"Are you feeling dizzy?" the doctor asks carefully. "Lightheaded?"
"Do you need to lie down?" Mariya adds, her hand going to my forehead like she's checking for a fever.
I laugh harder, which makes my shoulder scream in protest, but I can't stop. They think I'm delirious. They think the blood loss has scrambled my brain. But really, I'm just amused by the image of Mariya glaring at a doctor like he's a threat.
"I'm fine," I manage between laughs. "It's just… you look like you're about to attack him if he makes one wrong move."
Mariya's cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't back down. "I'm making sure he does it right."
"He's been doing this for twenty years,solnyshko."
