Page 113 of Beautiful Scar

“Dasha, sir, she was hanging a painting in your suite, and she fell.”

My heart starts to hammer. Blood rushes into my ears. “Fell? Is she okay?”

“Off a stepladder, sir, and I think?—”

I don’t hear what he says next. I hang up and instantly call Alexan. “Pick me up now. Get me home as fast as you can. It’s Dasha.” I speak to him in Armenian, my mind racing.

Evan’s watching closely. “I heard her name,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know.” I start pacing, my patience completely evaporated. A thousand things rush through my mind. “She might be hurt.”

“Fuck,” Evan says. Alexan’s car peels around the corner and slams to a halt beside the curb. “Go, you go, my men will get me.”

I throw myself into the back seat. “Drive,” I shout, and Alexan slams his foot down on the gas.

How the hell did this happen? I knew Dasha wanted to brighten up my side of the suite, but still. Fucking Grigor should have known better than to let her climb a stepladder. She’s not that pregnant, but still.

What if the baby’s hurt?

My fucking god.

If my wife and my child are injured?—

I don’t know what I’ll do.

I’m sweating and impatient. Alexan drives like a maniac, breaking just about every law imaginable in his haste. I want to scream and kill something. I keep seeing Dasha in my head, crashing to the floor, hitting her skull or breaking her arm, lying on the ground in a pool of blood?—

Stop torturing yourself. You don’t know what happened.

The car finally comes to a screeching halt out front of the house. I throw myself out, run up the steps, and slam open the door.

“Dasha!” I shout, hurrying up the stairs.

Grigor’s there waiting for me. “Sir, hold on a second, you should?—”

“Get the fuck out of the way, you incompetent old fool,” I snarl, shoving past him. “Dasha! Where are you? Dasha!” I run down the hall and burst into my suite. Grigor’s following, trying to get me to slow down, but my wife and my child are in danger, and I will not, Iwill not, fucking fail them.

Not like I failed before.

“Tigran?” Dasha’s sitting on the couch. She’s got an ice pack on her knee and a home decorating magazine open in her lap. “What’s going on?”

I run to her and drop to a knee. I take her hands in mine and pull her close, smelling her, kissing her, making sure there are no visible wounds. “Baby, it’s okay, I’m here now,” I say, hugging her tightly.

“Urk,” she says. “Tigran.”

“I’ve got you.” I close my eyes. Fuck, if she’s hurt?—

“Tigran,” she gasps, and I realize I’m being a little overzealous and release my grip. She sucks in air and gives me a completely confused stare. “What the heck is happening?”

“This might be my fault,” Grigor says from the doorway.

I slowly turn to him. “You called. You said shefell.”

“I did,” Dasha says, clearly trying not to laugh. “But I just hit my knee. I told him to call.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I tried to tell you it wasn’t a big deal. She just wanted to ask you to get more Advil on your way home and maybe a new ice pack as well.”

I stare at them. My guard looks like he’s worried I might shoot him. Dasha’s got both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking with mirth.

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