Page 75 of Carved in Ruin

My legs move on their own, carrying her down the hall, down the stairs, through the mansion. Anatoly follows close behind, his voice urgent as he makes some phone calls. My ears are ringing. My heart is pounding. My Mila is dying, and it’s all my fucking fault.

By the time I reach the emergency unit—kept here because we can’t take our injuries to a hospital without inviting too many questions—the medical team is already there, scrubbing their hands and prepping equipment. I kick open the door to the sterile room, ignoring the startled glances.

“Pakhan, you have to put her down,” Dr. Mark says, his hands dripping with antiseptic.

I lower her onto the gurney. But when the doctor looks at me expectantly, motioning for me to leave, I grab him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. “I’m not fucking leaving,” I snarl, my face inches from his. “You hear me? Scrub me down, bleach me, I don’t give a shit. But I’m not leaving her.”

Dr. Mark swallows hard, his eyes wide. “Fine. Fine, but you need to be sterile.” He gestures to a nurse, who immediately steps forward with gloves, scrubs, and antiseptic wipes.

“Put these on,” he says. “Scrub your hands and arms. Cover your clothes with this gown. Don’t get close to her.”

I release him, snatching the items from the nurse and doing exactly as he says. My hands are shaking so badly it takes longer than it should.

The team moves quickly once I’m ready, cutting away her shirt to reveal the wound. The sight of it makes my stomach churn.

The bullet is embedded deep, and the doctor calls for forceps, barking orders I barely register. I can’t look away. Her chest still rises and falls, and for the first time in years, I pray. I pray she survives this. The team works frantically, stitching her up, pumping her full of anesthetics and fluids.

I press my fist to my mouth, biting down hard to keep from screaming again. Tears burn my eyes, spilling down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying.

This is my fault. Every drop of blood. All of it. If she dies—no. She won’t.

Two agonizing hours. Every minute feels like a year. When they are finally done, and Dr. Mark moves over to me, I’m on my feet instantly, shoulders squared.

“She’s very lucky,” he says. “The bullet lodged in the soft tissue near her shoulder. It missed vital organs. She’ll need monitoring for a few days, but she’ll recover, quickly so.”

I let out a shaky breath. Relief hits me, leaving me dizzy. My hands tremble, and I press them against my sides to steady them. God—or whoever the hell is up there—I don’t pray, but thank you. Thank you for sparing her.

She’s lying there, pale, her hair spread out on the pillow, her breathing steady but shallow. Mykroshka. The only person who’s ever made me feel this raw, this exposed. I sit beside her, my fingers brushing her cheek. Her skin is cold to the touch and it sends a ripple of rage through me. How dare she do this to herself—to me?

When she wakes up, she’s going to pay. I’ll punish her for even thinking about leaving me, for the terror she put me through. But beneath the anger is the crushing truth: this is my fault. I pushed her. I toyed with her emotions instead of being a man and admitting the truth. If I hadn’t played these mind games, she wouldn’t have spiraled like this.

I force myself to leave her side before I lose it completely. The door closes behind me, and I hear Layla’s frantic pacing before I see her. She’s wearing a path into the floor, her face lined with worry, her hair pulled into a messy bun. Anatoly sits on the couch nearby, his jaw tight, his eyes darting between Layla and me.

Layla whirls around when she sees me. “Where the fuck is my sister?”

She couldn’t have picked a worse time. She’s been coming over constantly at random times for these past couple of days, waiting to see when Mila will finally talk to her again. Mypatience is paper-thin and her shrieking feels like nails dragging down my spine.

“She shot herself,” I say bluntly, no sugarcoating, no softening the blow.

Her knees give out, and she crumples to the floor, staring up at me with wide eyes. “She what? Why aren’t you at the hospital? Did you even take her to the hospital? Where is she?”

She scrambles to her feet, about to run past me, but I grab her arm and hold her back. “She’s here,” I assure her. “She had surgery. She’s going to be okay.”

Layla exhales sharply, her knees buckling again. “Why? Why did she do this?”

I hesitate. The words taste like poison on my tongue. “She blames herself for your mother’s death,” I say finally. “She thinks we’d all be better off without her.”

Layla freezes, her face contorting in horror. “What? Is that why she didn’t want to see me?”

I nod.

She breaks. Her hands fly to her face as a sob tears out of her. I glance at Anatoly. He’s watching her, his expression a mix of agony and longing. I know he has feelings for her. He’d never act on them without my approval, and right now, he’s silently begging me for it.

I give him a curt nod.

He’s on his feet in an instant, moving to Layla and scooping her into his arms. She doesn’t resist, her cries muffled against his chest as he carries her out of the mansion.

I turn back toward Mila. I’ll sit by her side all night if I have to. She’s mine, and I’ll be damned if I let her slip away.

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