Page 53 of Hostage of the Russian
“Like hell you’re going anywhere,” Viktor said, suddenly at his side.
Viktor’s strong hands gripped Kostya’s uninjured arm, steadying him as he swayed.
“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“They’re getting away,” Kostya snarled, trying to push past him. “Danny’s with them. I can end this right now.”
“And get yourself killed in the process?”
Fedya appeared on Kostya’s other side, his pale eyes assessing Kostya’s wound with clinical detachment.
“You’ve lost too much blood. Any more running around and you’ll pass out.”
“I’m fine,” Kostya insisted, even as black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
“You’re an idiot,” Viktor corrected. “We’ll handle tracking them down. You’re going home.”
The argument continued during the entire drive back to the mansion, Kostya’s protests growing weaker as blood loss took its toll. By the time they pulled into the driveway, he could barely keep his eyes open.
“Should we call the family doctor?” Fedya asked.
“No,” Kostya managed. “Just help me inside. I can handle it.”
They exchanged a look that clearly said they thought he was being stubborn and stupid, but they helped him through the front door anyway. The house was quiet, wrapped in the peaceful stillness of early morning. Azriel would still be sleeping, unaware of the violence that had just unfolded.
“We’ll be in touch once we have more information,” Viktor said, his voice unusually gentle. “Try not to bleed to death before then.”
After they left, Kostya made his way slowly up the stairs, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through, which was good, but the bleeding hadn’t stopped completely. He needed to clean and dress the wound before it got infected.
He had just made it to the bathroom when he heard her voice.
“Kostya? Is that you?”
Fuck. He’d hoped to patch himself up before she noticed anything was wrong. The last thing he wanted was to worry her, especially when she was finally starting to trust him, to open up about her past.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he called back, trying to keep his voice steady. “Just getting cleaned up.”
“It’s barely six in the morning. Where have you been?”
Before he could answer, she appeared in the bathroom doorway, her smoky gray eyes still heavy with sleep. She wore one of his shirts as a nightgown, the dark fabric making her skin look luminous in the dim light. Her black hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and for a moment, he forgot about the pain in his shoulder entirely.
Then her gaze dropped to the blood soaking through his shirt, and her face went pale.
“Oh my God, Kostya. What happened?”
“It’s nothing serious,” he said quickly, trying to downplay the severity of the wound. “Just a graze.”
She was already moving toward him, her hands reaching for his shirt.
“Don’t lie to me. There’s blood everywhere.”
“Azriel, really, I can handle this.”
But she ignored his protests, her small hands already working to carefully peel away the blood-soaked fabric. When she saw the wound, she sucked in a sharp breath.
“This is not a graze,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “You need stitches. We should call a doctor.”
“No doctors,” he said firmly. “I’ve had worse. I just need to clean it and bandage it up.”
