Page 20 of Vendetta Crown

A tall, lean man appears almost instantly. "Yes, Vyacheslav Petrovich?"

"Escort Ruslan Vitalyevich to the guest room. And have someone bring medical supplies. He's bleeding through his bandages, and I don't want him to make a mess all over my floors."

Shura nods, stepping forward to support my weight.

"Go," Potyomkin says to me. "Your wife is waiting."

I lean heavily on Shura as we navigate the hallways of Potyomkin's penthouse. Each step sends fresh agony through my shoulder, and I can feel warm blood seeping through my bandages.

"Almost there, Ruslan Vitalyevich," Shura murmurs, supporting my weight as if I'm nothing more than a child.

We stop before an ornate door. My heart hammers against my ribs. I raise my good arm and knock, my knuckles barely tapping the polished wood.

The door opens, and Vera stands there, her delicate features arranged in careful composure. When she sees me, a slight smile touches her lips.

"Ruslan Vitalyevich," she says, her voice soft.

"I hear congratulations are in order," I say quietly in Russian.

"Thank you." She places a hand on her still-flat stomach, her smile turning shy. "Slava and I are both very happy."

"I'm glad,devushka."

And I am, in spite of everything. In our world, happiness is rare enough to deserve acknowledgment.

Vera steps aside. "She's waiting for you."

I step through the doorway, and my breath stops in my throat.

Aurora sits on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the Las Vegas skyline. She's wearing clothes that aren't her own, some designer outfit Potyomkin must have provided. But it's not her clothes that make my blood run cold.

It's the angry purple bruise blossoming across her cheek.

It's the visible bite mark on her shoulder peeking out from under her blouse.

It's the haunted look in her eyes that I saw once before, when she told me about her stalker, about the words written in her family's blood.

"Zarechka," I whisper.

She turns, and when she sees me, her eyes widen. She jumps to her feet.

"Ruslan?"

Her voice breaks on my name, and that sound—that crack in her perfect composure—nearly brings me to my knees.

I stagger forward, my own pain forgotten. All I can see is the bruise on her face. All I can think about is what that bastard Kristofer did to her. What he would have done if Potyomkin's men hadn't arrived.

Rage burns through me, hot and vicious. I want to tear Kristofer apart with my bare hands. I want to make him suffer for every mark on her body, for every moment of fear she felt.

But there's another emotion, too, coiling through my chest like smoke.

Guilt.

Crushing, overwhelming guilt.

I failed her.

I promised to protect her, and I failed.

---