Page 182 of Emerald Malice

And wait.

And wait…

But there’s nothing but emptiness.

Shura drives over a speed bump, and Andrey hisses under his breath. His hand presses to his hastily bandaged gunshot wound.

He acted like it was no worse than a mosquito bite—a mere annoyance, nothing more.

“What about you?” I press. “You need medical attention, too.”

“The Bratva doctor is already on site. He’ll tend to me when we get there.” He gives me a bracing smile that I try hard to return.

Does he see through me?

For a moment, his face falls into hard lines, but then his hand drapes over my shoulders. “Don’t worry, lastochka. This is nothing. A little scrape for the storybook, that’s all.”

The lie would be a lot more convincing if I didn’t smell his blood. The metallic taint of it clings to his shirt, soaking through like a blooming red flower.

I turn away and press my hands to my stomach.

Our daughter kicks and flutters, a little reminder that I can’t withdraw. No matter how much I want to shut this all off—no matter how much I hate that so many people were hurt because they were close to me—I have to keep going.

For her.

When we stop at the manor, Leif opens the door and Leonty moves forward to help me out. Andrey and Shura are there, too, like it might really take four men to get me inside.

But I root myself to the spot.

“Where’s Anatoly and Olaf?”

All four of the brave, strong men go pale.

They shift nervously, glancing from me to each other, and my heart lodges in my throat.

Andrey steps up. “Natalia, let’s get inside. Maybe now’s not the time?—”

“Don’t! Don’t you dare fucking patronize me.”

“Natalia—”

“Look me in the eye and tell me the truth. I deserve to know.”

“’Drey,” Shura mutters, “she’s right. She deserves to know.”

Andrey sighs. It might be the most vulnerability I’ve ever seen from him. Something in the darkness in his eyes and the exhausted slump of his shoulders.

“Olaf was injured, but he’s going to be fine. He’ll need bed rest for a few weeks, but otherwise, he’ll make a full recovery.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

Leaving me to ask the question I know I don’t want the answer to.

“And Anatoly?”

No one says anything.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

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