Page 75 of Beautiful Scar

I listen to him breathing as I snuggle in closer to his warmth.They’re outside. They’re trying to break in. All my safety is gone. It was never real to begin with.

“I got you,” he whispers in the blackness, pulling me back to him. “And you have me. We’re in this together, right, baby?”

I nod against him. I can’t speak, or else I might cry, which is so pathetic.

He’s the one that got shot, so why is he the one doing the comforting?

I need to be stronger for him. Even if I feel like the foundation on which I’ve built my entire life is melting away, there’s still Tigran, his strong hands, his steady chest. I can hold on to him and give him something to hold on to in return.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, holding me close. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too,” I say, leaning up to kiss his chin.

He smiles, eyelids heavy and drooping, as the medicine does its work and drags him into sleep. I stay awake a while longer in a strange bed in a strange room, listening to my strange husband take rattling breaths and wonder when the outside will crack through my shell and swallow me whole.

Then, almost as I’m about to drift off, he makes a sound. I lean closer to him, listening. “Tigran?” I whisper, reaching up to touch his face.

He lets out a soft groan. It’s obvious he’s still asleep; the pills must’ve been stronger than we thought.

But he says it again. And this time, I hear it clearly.

“Natalia,” he whispers.

I go very still. The room feels small.

Who the hell is Natalia?

Chapter 22

Dasha

Ileap out of bed to the sound of hammers destroying my brain.

Wait, no, not my brain—destroying a freaking wall.

“Tigran?” I look around wildly before hurrying into the hell between our suites. The door’s open, and the noise is coming from my room. “Tigran!”

I find my husband hunched over a window, whacking the frame with a hammer. Three of his guards are lurking behind him, each looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. All four men turn in my direction, and the hammer lingers in the air for one brief moment before my husband crashes it down again and breaks off the lower sill.

“That’s how it’s fucking done,” he says, grimacing in pain as he raises the hammer again.

“Absolutely fuckingnot,” I say and storm over to him, beyond livid. He grunts in surprise as I grab his elbow. “What the hell are you thinking right now?”

“You’re cursing,” he says, highly amused. “I don’t think I’ve heard you curse like that before.”

“Then listen to me now, you stupid motherfucker, because this is the dumbest goddamn shit I’ve ever fuckingseen.” I turn to the guards. “And you two, what were you thinking? Your boss got shot and stabbed last night, and you’re letting him do manual fucking labor?”

“Sorry,” one of them mutters, and the other has the good sense to look equally ashamed.

I turn back to my idiot husband, and he’s grinning like this is some big joke. Except I don’t find it funny at all. I nearly lost him last night, and the idea of letting him hurt himself all over again because he wants to do some stupid and ill-advised home improvement project is absolutely maddening.

“I like this on you,” he says, tilting the hammer in my direction.

I snatch it from his limp fingers. “You belong in bed, you asshole.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep yelling at me, baby, and I’ll have to send the men away.”

My cheeks turn red, but I’m not going to let him embarrass me into submission. I grab his arm and push him away from the ruined wall, tossing the hammer onto the couch. “What were you thinking?” I say, barely controlling my anger. “The doctor told you to take it easy, and this is what you do?”

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