Page 47 of Scarred Bratva King

Ivan appears at my side, his face tight with concern. “You’re bleeding.”

“Just a scratch,” I say through gritted teeth, though the warmth of blood seeping through my shirt tells me otherwise.

“Marco?” Dmitri asks, his voice sharp as he steps into view.

I shake my head. “Not here.”

Dmitri curses under his breath, but I don’t have the energy to respond. The adrenaline is wearing off, and the pain is starting to settle in.

We make our way back to the SUVs, the tension still heavy in the air. As I slide into the passenger seat, I press a hand to my side, wincing at the sharp sting.

Ivan glances at me, his brow furrowed. “You need that stitched up.”

“What I need to do is find that cunt and kill him,” I reply, leaning back against the seat and letting out a long slow breath of irritation. Twice I should have had him. Twice, I failed. It must not happen again.

The second I walk through the door, Veronica calls out. “Maxim!”

I glance up to see her standing at the base of the stairs, her wide eyes fixed on the blood staining my shirt. Her expression flickers between panic and anger. “What happened?”

She cares about me.

“I’m fine,” I say, waving her off. But the wince that follows when I shift my weight gives me away.

Her footsteps are quick as she rushes toward me. “Fine? You’re bleeding, Maxim! That’s not fine.”

I shrug, leaning slightly against the wall. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Don’t lie,” she snaps, slipping her arm around me before I can stop her. “Come on, you’re sitting down, and I’m patching you up. No arguments.”

She steers me toward the stairs with surprising force. “You’re bossy when you’re worried, you know that?”

“And you’re stubborn when you’re hurt,” she shoots back, her grip tightening on my arm. “Where’s a first aid kit?”

“My room.”

By the time we make it to my bedroom, the adrenaline is wearing off, and the sting of the wound sharpens. I lower myself onto the edge of the bed with a groan, my fingers brushing the blood-soaked fabric of my shirt.

“Take it off,” she orders, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nightstand.

I arch an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, Veronica, you could’ve just asked.”

She doesn’t even pause, her hands on her hips as she glares at me. “Cute. Now take it off before I cut it off.”

I chuckle, but the sound fades as I peel the shirt off, exposing the graze near my ribs. Her sharp intake of breath draws my attention.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say, watching her closely.

Her hands tremble slightly as she kneels in front of me, her fingers hovering over the wound. “You could’ve been killed.”

“But I wasn’t,” I counter, smirking. “See? Everything’s fine.”

She shoots me a glare that could melt steel. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Only the important things.”

As she cleans the wound, her touch is careful but firm, and I find myself watching her more than I should. Her hair falls over her face, and her lips press into a tight line, her focus entirely on me.

“You’re wasting your concern on me,” I say after a moment. “I can do this myself.”

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