Page 87 of Shatter Me

I welcome the pain. It's less than I deserve after what I put her through. The museum board meetings, the galas, the quiet moments in her office—I’d selfishly pulled her deeper into my orbit, knowing the risks. And now she'd paid the price for my weakness.

"You'll need to rest for at least two weeks," Kelvin says, working on extracting the first bullet.

Two weeks. Fourteen days to figure out how to make this right with Tash. That's if she'll even speak to me again. I've got a lot of groveling to prove that she means more to me than this war. But first, I need to ensure she stays safe, even if it's from a distance.

"Viktor," I catch his attention. "Double the security detail on her apartment. Discreet surveillance only. She doesn't want to see any of us."

He nods, already typing on his phone. The second bullet clinks into a metal tray.

I close my eyes again, remembering how she trembled against me in the car. I'll fix this. I have to. Whatever it takes.

36

TASH

Istare at the fifth bouquet of roses delivered this week, their petals a deep burgundy that reminds me of blood—of his blood seeping through his shirt at the warehouse. I grab the arrangement and dump it in the trash, ignoring the card that falls to the floor.

My phone buzzes with another text from him. I don't need to look to know it's another apology, another plea to let him explain.

The doorbell rings again. This time, it's a Cartier box, delivered by a courier who vanishes before I can refuse it. I set it unopened on the growing pile of similar packages on my coffee table—next to the Hermès scarf, the Louboutin heels, and what I suspect is a Fabergé egg.

"For fuck's sake, Dmitri." I massage my temples to ward off the headache building behind my eyes.

My office at the museum has become a minefield, too. Yesterday, I arrived to find my entire desk covered in white orchids. The day before the orchids, it was a first-edition art history book.

I've changed my route to work three times this week to avoid his drivers, who seem to materialize at every corner. But there's no escaping the constant reminders of him or the guards he's stationed outside my building, which I pretend not to notice. Or the messages from his assistant about "urgent board matters," the way my skin tingles when I remember his touch.

My phone buzzes again—it's Sofia calling me.

"Hey, the gifts aren't working, are they?" she asks without preamble.

"Tell your brother-in-law he can't buy my forgiveness."

"He's... struggling. Nikolai has never seen him like this."

I sink onto my couch, carefully avoiding looking at the pile of unopened presents. "He lied to me, Sofia. He used me as a pawn in his war. How am I supposed to trust anything about him now?"

"I know. But?—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Just... don't."

"At least let me take you to lunch," Sofia says gently. "You need to eat something besides coffee and spite."

I laugh despite myself. "I had a croissant this morning."

"The one he had delivered from that French bakery you love?"

"I threw it away." A lie. I'd eaten every flaky, buttery bite, hating myself for enjoying it.

"Come on," she coaxes. "Thai food at that place across from your apartment. My treat and I promise not to mention him more than three times."

I glance at the pile of gifts, each chosen with irritating perfection. The bastard knows my taste too well. "Only three times?"

"Okay, maybe five. But I'll buy you extra spring rolls to compensate for it."

My stomach growls, betraying me just like every other part of my body seems to these days. "Fine. Half an hour?"

"Perfect. And Tash?"

---