Page 65 of His Hold

And I would do it all again for her.

Chapter 19

Katya

The city lights blur through the penthouse windows as I pace, checking my phone for the hundredth time, but none of it brings me closer to knowing if he’s alive. No messages. No calls. Nothing from Nikolai since he left yesterday morning.

I eye the elevator, wondering if I could override the security code. The fancy panel mocks me with its blinking red light. Between the cameras and his guards downstairs, escaping seems impossible. Not that I want to leave anymore, but old habits die hard.

My eyes drift shut somewhere between midnight and dawn. When they open again, sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I wake to the soft scrape of a chair against the floor.

And there he is.

Nikolai sits in the leather armchair across from the bed with blood staining his white, unbuttoned shirt. His hair’s a mess, falling over his forehead in unruly strands. One eye is swollen and purple, and there is a nasty cut runs along his forearm.

“Jesus. Did you crawl through a warzone to get here?” I say, voice scratchy from sleep.

“Good morning to you, too, krasivaya.” His lips quirk up despite the exhaustion etched into his features. “You sleep like a dead thing.”

“Because I didn’t think you were actually coming back.” I shoot back, even though my chest feels lighter at the sight of him.

I slide out of bed, padding over to examine his wounds. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Just business.” He says it like it’s nothing. “Got any coffee?”

“No, but I could brew you some blood instead. Seems like you’re fresh out.”

A grin tugs at his mouth, though it looks like it hurts him to smile. “You’re funny when you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Just curious why you look like roadkill.”

“Roadkill’s usually dead.” He drags himself to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen. “Guess I got lucky.”

I follow him. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

“No.” He pours himself a glass of water, leaning against the counter. “You gonna stop asking?”

“No.” I fold my arms tighter. “You’re limping.”

“You’re nagging.”

“I’m concerned. Big difference.”

He watches me over the rim of his glass. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m a ballerina.” I grab a towel, dampen it, and toss it at him. “At least clean yourself up before you drip blood all over your fancy floors.”

He catches the towel, his expression twitching with something that might be amusement. Or maybe he’s just delirious. “Thanks.”

“You look like shit,” I say. “But you’re alive, so…good for you, I guess.”

He smirks—or tries to. It comes out as more of a wince. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Katya. I might start thinking you care.”

“I don’t.” The lie tastes bitter. “I just need you alive so I can get answers.”

“Right,” he says, dabbing at his cuts. “Because this is all about your sister.”

“Exactly.” There’s something in the way he looks at me, something that makes me feel like he’s stripping away every lie I try to hide behind.

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