Page 50 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Jesus Christ,” Anya whispered, her voice cracking. “What happened? Are you hurt? Is Eleanor….”
“She was ambushed,” I said, my voice flat and controlled despite the rage still burning in my chest. “Professional job. Two shooters on motorcycles.”
Without waiting for a response, I ushered Eleanor inside.
Anya followed. “Beaumont?”
I shook my head. “Bratva.”
The color drained from Anya’s face completely, and she pressed a hand to her mouth like she was trying to hold back a scream. She understood what that meant. What it implied. Thatthe war I’d declared three days ago had come home, had reached past my defenses to touch the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.
Eleanor hadn’t said a word since we’d entered the house. She stood beside me like a ghost, present but not really there, her mind probably still trapped in that alley with the sound of gunfire and the smell of blood.
“Take her upstairs,” Anya said, her voice gentle in a way that made my throat tight. “I’ll handle everything else.”
I nodded, then remembered the practical details that would need attention. “Call Zara. Tell her Eleanor’s office is off-limits until further notice. Security reasons.”
“Of course.”
“And Anya?” I caught her eyes, making sure she understood the gravity of what I was about to say. “Call Lev. Tell him to double the perimeter. No one in or out without my direct approval. No one. That includes you.”
Her face tightened, but she nodded. She knew better than to argue when lives were on the line, when the safety of everyone under this roof depended on absolute control and unwavering vigilance.
I guided Eleanor up the stairs with a hand on the small of her back, feeling the way she moved like she was walking through water. Shock. She was in shock, running on adrenaline that would crash soon and leave her shaking and raw.
My bedroom felt like a sanctuary after the violence of the afternoon. Soft lighting, expensive fabrics, the kind of luxury that existed in a world far removed from bullets and blood. But I could still smell cordite on my clothes, could still feel the weight of death in my hands.
I moved to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water, pressing it into Eleanor’s trembling fingers. She took it without looking at me, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the window where Chicago sprawled in all its oblivious glory.
“Drink,” I said quietly.
She obeyed mechanically, the water disappearing in small sips that seemed to require tremendous effort. When she was finished, she set the glass on the nightstand with the careful precision of someone trying very hard not to fall apart.
“You’re safe now,” I said, and the words were meant to be comforting, meant to anchor her in the present instead of whatever nightmare was playing behind her eyes.
Instead, they broke her.
The first sob cracked from her chest like a gunshot, raw and jagged and full of all the terror she’d been holding back. Then another, and another, until she was crying with the kind of desperate intensity that came from staring death in the face and living to tell about it.
She curled into herself on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest, my jacket still wrapped around her like a shield that couldn’t quite keep out the cold. I stood there for a moment, frozen by the sight of her pain, by the knowledge that I’d caused this. That my world, my enemies, my choices had put her in that alley with bullets flying and blood on the pavement.
Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to maintain distance, to let her process this alone, to avoid making the situation worse with my presence. But she needed me. Not the Bratva facilitator, not the killer who’d just painted the street with enemy blood, but her husband.
The man who’d promised to protect her and failed.
I moved to the bed slowly, carefully, like she was a wounded animal that might bolt if I made any sudden movements. When I settled beside her, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned toward me, seeking comfort in the same hands that had just delivered death.
The contradiction should have been impossible to reconcile. But this was Eleanor, who’d looked at me covered inblood and called me hers. Who’d seen the monster and chosen to love the man beneath it.
I pulled her into my arms, and she came willingly, burying her face against my shirt and letting the tears flow unchecked. Her body shook with the force of her sobs, and I felt each one like a physical blow to my chest.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped between hiccups, her voice muffled against the fabric of my shirt. “I’m so fucking sorry, Maxim. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have gone to see Arlette without telling you. I almost….”
“Shh,” I whispered, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.”
But the anger was there, burning in my chest like acid. Not at her, never at her, but at myself. At my failure to keep her safe, at my inability to shield her from the consequences of my choices. At the fucking hubris that had made me think I could have this, could have her, without paying a price in blood.
I buried the rage deep where it belonged, where it could fuel the hunt for whoever had ordered this attack instead of poisoning the moment she needed me most. Instead, I focused on the simple act of comfort, of being present for the woman who’d become the center of my goddamn universe.
