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Even semiconscious, he manages to stand up, grunting in the process. I put his good arm around my neck and start dragging him out.
We’re at the front of the house, waiting for Dimitri, when I hear the voice in my earpiece and my blood goes ice-cold.
“Sergei? Are you okay?”
I shut my eyes, wanting to hit something. She’s been listening the entire time.
Sergei arrives an hour later. The moment I see the front door open, I leap up from the couch where I’ve been waiting. Instead of coming over, he just glances in my direction and heads for the stairs. I stand in the middle of the living room, staring at his retreating form, wondering what the hell is going on. I make a decision then. If he wants to be left alone, it will have to be some other time, because I need to know he’s okay.
I reach the top of the stairs just in time to see him going into his bedroom. When I make it inside the room, he’s nowhere to be seen, but the water is running in the bathroom.
“Sergei?” I call, and when I don’t receive an answer, I approach and open the door.
Sergei is standing in front of the sink, his head is bent, and his hands are gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles have turned white.
“Felix shouldn’t have let you listen to the audio feed,” he says without raising his head.
I take a couple of steps forward and place my hand on his. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like the idea of you listening while I’m killing people, Angelina.”
He still won’t look at me. Instead, he focuses intently on the sink, his jaw clenched tight. I turn off the water, then place my hand on his cheek and slowly turn his head toward me.
“Hearing or seeing people being killed is nothing new to me, Sergei.” I brush the back of my hand down the side of his face. “You’re covered in blood.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Good.” I nod and start unstrapping his vest.
As he pulls the vest over his head, a hiss escapes his mouth. “Shit,” he mumbles, grabs his shirt, and pulls it off, revealing a wicked-looking red mark nestled between the black lines of his tattoos.
“Sergei!” I gasp and lean in to inspect it. “Is this from a gunshot?”
“It’s just a bruise. The vest stopped the bullet.”
I reach out and lightly brush the injured skin with the tip of my finger. He could have died. How could they let him go in there alone?
There’s a soft touch on my chin as he takes it between his fingers and tilts my face up. “It’s just soft tissue trauma. It happens.”
He says this as if being shot is not a big deal. What if he hadn’t been wearing the bulletproof vest? What if it had been a bullet capable of piercing the vest? I look into his eyes, which are watching me, grip his face between my palms, and press my lips to his. He doesn’t respond for a second or two, but then he grabs me around the waist, pressing me to him as his lips start attacking mine.
The arm around my middle tightens and lifts me onto the countertop next to the sink. Sergei’s lips vanish from mine, and Iopen my eyes to find him looking at me with his head cocked to the side.
“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into, Angelina?” he asks, and I watch with wide eyes as he reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh.
I follow the huge blade as he moves it to my chest and places the slightly curved tip under the first button of my shirt. There are a few dark stains on its sleek metal surface that look like dried blood. Is he trying to scare me off?
“Yes.” Tilting my head up, I look right into his light eyes. I might look mousy, but I’m not easily scared. People who are willing to kill in order to protect don’t frighten me. I'm only afraid of those who hurt others simply to enjoy their pain.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around the hand holding the knife. The button flies away, clattering onto the floor.
He moves the blade lower, hooking the tip under the next target. “Are you sure about that?”
I nod, and the second button falls to the floor. The third follows soon after, and I sit, unmoving, as he continues cutting them off until they are all gone. Taking a deep breath, I shrug the shirt off and let it fall. Sergei’s lips curve upward, and I suck in a breath when the cold blade lightly presses against the center of my chest.
“I like this bra,” I choke out.
“Me, too,” he says, hooking his finger under the fabric that’s holding the cups together, and moves the tip of the knife up. “But I prefer it off.”
