Page 29 of Fate and Family

We race through the streets toward the St. Petersburg train station. His go bag is stored in a locker there. Easy to access, although I could do without the CCTV cameras all over the place. Fortunately, his go bag retrieval is less traumatic than mine.

But we’re far from out of the woods. There’s a long line of people, and we need to hop on the first train available. Glancing at the schedule, I find the perfect one. While people are waiting in line, I spot a couple—rich, fancy, and obnoxious—cutting to the front, and I steal their tickets.

Next thing, we're on the train as it departs, and the couple is gone. We end up in a cramped sleeper cabin that smells like old tobacco.

“Come on.” I drop my go bag on the floor. “We’ve got a long trip. Let’s take a look at your wound.”

He pulls away as I reach for him, the quick action making him wince. He needs space, but his blood has soaked through his jacket and dried, creating a scab mixed with linen. He movesslowly and deliberately as he discards his jacket, and hisses when he pulls his injured arm out of the sleeve. The fabric and the scab tear away from the injured flesh.

“Have you been shot before?”

“I’ve been stabbed by men with shitty aim.”

Is he joking? I can’t believe he thinks he’s funny.

With the jacket off, it’s easier to see the injury. Blood soaks through his white shirt, spreading like a glacier and staining everything underneath. His eyes focus on mine.

“It’s not as bad as I thought.” The wound is clean, and it doesn’t look like the bullet is embedded. “Take off your shirt.” It’s already a mess, but there’s no reason to make it worse.

My go bag has a field medical kit. Gauze, liquid stitches, some antibiotics—it’s not perfect, but it will do until we can get him to a hospital.

Wetting a piece of gauze, I extend my fingers toward him and pause. Minus the blood-soaked skin, he seems pretty unharmed. But his chest?—

My lady bits clench as I take in the defined muscles and intricate tattoos. Surveillance told me he worked out, but...wow. I take a second to enjoy the view: his bare chest, his black pants with a black belt, and his stoic expression. He’s a fucking god.

I swallow and redirect my attention to his wound.

He grabs my wrist with his uninjured hand. “Why the hell should I let you touch me?” I yank away, but he tightens his grip. “You lied to me. How the fuck do I know you didn’t set this whole thing up?”

My eyes burn, and the train rocking throws me off balance—but not nearly as much as his attack.

“You think I had your whole family and my entire team murdered? Your family—the people I’ve been relentlessly trying to keep safe? And my team—the people who’ve been my fucking lifeline and the only thread of sanity I’ve had in this mission?”

My throat feels like it’s on fire. I might make the occasionally dubious choice, but I am not evil, and this shit feels like a pact with the devil or something.

“I have to get to Helsinki, to the embassy, and report to my superiors that Marguerite—a mom of two beautiful little boys—her corpse is a tripping hazard in the hallway.”

He breaks our gaze to watch the fields go by in the darkness.

“How exactly have you been protecting my family?”

“Let’s see.” I count on my fingers, “I pulled a bomb out of your father’s car. The Smirnov syndicate sent over three guys to jump you, but they had an ‘accident’ on the way over. I diverted the authorities’ attention away from the docks when your shipments came in. Oh, and I had Ian’s EpiPen on hand, ready to keep him alive. And thirty minutes ago, I dragged your ass out of a burning building.”

The saturated gauze drips through my fingers.

He swallows and turns his head to the side, giving his full attention to the window—or maybe watching me through the reflection.

The blood wipes away, vanishing and being absorbed into the cloth. I work in slow circles, cleaning around the wound but careful not to touch it.

“How much of you is real?” he hisses as I apply pressure to the laceration, reopening any scabs that had formed.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Fresh blood seeps through the gauze. He reaches back, pulls a second piece out of the kit, and hands it to me.

“I was ready to walk away from my whole life for you. And none of it was real.”

I swallow, and my high-definition vision of blood and flesh blurs for a second.

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