Page 160 of Vicious Games

I’m not sure they’d even bat an eye before pulling the trigger.

“When they were shooting at us, all I could think about was what kind of mess you dragged me into,” I whisper, voice trembling. “But now… I’m afraid I’m the one who’s putting you in danger.”

Lucky brushes a hand over my hair, voice rough but certain. “As long as I’m with you, that’s all that matters.”

Just as the words leave his mouth, my stomach flips and I hold onto Lucky as the plane lifts into the air, cutting through the night sky. The rumble of the engine builds beneath us, a sound that feels too final. I swallow, hoping I didn’t just sign Lucky’s death warrant by getting on this plane.

I know he’d die to protect me. But I don’t think he understands—I’d do the same for him. I couldn’t live in a world where Lucky wasn’t in it.

He holds me tight until the plane evens out, soaring at a steady altitude. That’s when the door opens again and Kirill walks in, followed by Kostya. Kirill is carrying a black leather bag that looks a hell of a lot like something a battlefield medic would own.

He doesn’t even glance our way. Instead, he kneels beside the bed, brushing Stella’s blood-matted hair away from her face with a surprising tenderness.

“Has she woken up yet?” he asks without looking up at us.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“Okay. Might be for the best.” His eyes flick to mine. “Can you hold her head while I take off her jacket?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lucky snaps, already moving in front of me protectively.

“Your sister has a bullet in her shoulder. I’m going to take it out,” Kirill explains like this is an everyday occurrence for him.

“The fuck you are! Land the goddamn plane and take her to a hospital!”

“That’s not happening,” Kirill says, his voice low and final, a glacier behind those eyes.

“Let him help,” I cut in, placing a hand on Lucky’s arm. “He won’t hurt Stella.”

The vein in Lucky’s neck pulses hard. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.

“Oh shit—this is Stella?” Kostya says with a chuckle, like it’s the punchline of some cosmic joke. “TheStella?”

“Zamolchi. Ni drugogo slova!”Kirill barks, snapping his head toward his brother. The scolding is sharp enough to slice the tension in half. He then turns to me, once he’s reined in his rage. “Come help me, Kira.”

“My name is Frances,” I correct through gritted teeth, but I move toward the bed anyway.

Stella is barely conscious, limp in my hands as I prop her up. Kirill works quickly, his fingers skilled and sure as he peels off her leather jacket, revealing that blood has soaked through the lining. Her black turtleneck follows, leaving her in a paper-thin, nearly transparent tank top that’s plastered to her skin and drenched in her own blood.

“What…what’s going on?” she groans disoriented, eyes fluttering open.

“One of mysoldatshot you,milaya.I need to get the bullet out. You’re losing too much blood,” Kirill murmurs, slipping off his jacket and shirt without shame, leaving his scarred, muscular chest bare. Like this, he looks more like a soldier than any doctor I’ve ever seen.

“Ki…Kill?” Stella whispers, slurring his name.

“Yes,dusha moya.It’s me.” His voice gentles into something almost unrecognizable—soft, intimate, and dangerous in its familiarity.

I glance over at Lucky, whose jaw is locked tight, his hands curled into fists.

But though it must be killing him, he remains silent, not wanting to pull Kirill’s focus off his wounded sister.

“How is your head?”

“I’ve… had… worse hangovers,” Stella replies, still battling to keep awake.

Kirill smiles at her, only to square his shoulders next, when he feels too many eyes on him and Stella. “This will hurt,” Kirill warns, gently tipping her forward to inspect the wound. Blood is pouring from her shoulder in slow, pulsing rivulets, soaking the sheets beneath her. “Hand me the alcohol and small forceps,” he says without looking up.

“Aye aye, doc,” Kostya quips, digging into the bag and tossing a small bottle and gleaming silver forceps in their original hygienic package.

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