Page 45 of Convenient Vows

That look she gave me when I brushed her off — part disappointment, part understanding, part something else I couldn’t name. My chest tightens sharply, fingers flexing on the handle of my blade.

Focus, Zasha.

It is a death wish to be distracted during an operation, yet her thought lingers — the scent of her, the softness, the warmth I felt against the cold edge of my world.

I catch a flicker of movement, but it’s too late. A rival lunges from the corner, brandishing a knife. I twist, but not quickly enough.

The blade slashes across my side, and a white-hot flash of pain sears through my skin and muscle, tearing a sharp breath from my throat. I slam my elbow into his face, driving him back, then drive my knife upward with brutal precision. The man collapses, already dead before he hits the ground.

I stand there for a beat, breath heaving, feeling the blood warm and wet under my shirt, the edges of my vision pulsing faintly.

“Zasha!”

Viktor’s voice snaps, sharp and pissed.

He rounds the corner, eyes flaring wide as he takes in the blood, the stiff angle of my shoulders.

“What the hell was that?” he snarls, grabbing my arm roughly. “You’re off your game. You should’ve seen that coming.”

I grit my teeth, shaking him off.

“I’ll handle it.”

Viktor tightens his jaw but steps back, shooting a glance at Lev.

Lev lifts a brow, but says nothing.

I slip away, pressing a hand to my side and feeling the sticky warmth seep through my fingers. My breath is tight and shallow, with every step a calculated measure. The only thing bouncing around in my head is the need to get home and clean it up.

The night air hits hard as I step outside, cool and sharp, carrying the faint smell of rain. I move fast, sliding into my car, gripping the wheel tight as I peel out of the lot. The wound throbs with every breath, but it’s not deep. I’ve had worse.

Still, my mind stubbornly and treacherously drifts back to her, and I curse under my breath, shoving her thought away.

By the time I pull into my garage, the adrenaline has faded, leaving only the sharp bite of pain and the heavy drag of exhaustion. I slam the car door shut, pressing one hand hard against my side, feeling the wet warmth still leaking through the ruined fabric.

My jaw tightens, and my breath hitches, but I know I’ll be fine because I’ve handled worse. Yet, each step toward the house feels heavier and slower, as if the very edge of gravity has shifted just enough to pull me down.

I push through the door, my shoulders tense, as the quiet hush of the house presses in around me. It’s dark inside, the city lights casting pale lines across the floor through the high windows.

My boots are silent on the polished floor as I cross the foyer, moving through the cool, empty rooms. I make it to the stairs, gripping the rail a little tighter than I need to, jaw clenched as a fresh throb of pain shoots through my side. The wound is surely deeper than I thought.

By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m sweating. I flick the light on, the stark glare washing over the sleek marble, the shiningsteel fixtures. The man in the mirror stares back at me, eyes hard with thinly controlled anger.

I tear off the shirt, the fabric clinging wetly to my skin, cursing softly under my breath as the jagged gash across my side comes fully into view.

It’s deep but certainly not fatal. I grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink, flipping it open with practiced hands, and begin laying out gauze, antiseptic, and sutures. Then I hear a noise and whip my head toward the door, Glock already in hand.

And there she is: standing frozen, eyes wide, her hand instinctively lifting to her mouth. The silk robe she wore this morning has been replaced by a soft t-shirt, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and her face is pale with shock.

“Oh no, Zasha,” she whispers, voice thin and breathless. “What happened to you?”

For a split second, I see myself through her eyes — the blood, the brutal lines of my body, the cold, closed-off tattooed man trying to stitch himself back together in the mirror.

I open my mouth to tell her to go, to shut the door, to pretend she didn’t see, but the words don’t come. She steps forward, her expression shifting from shock to something fierce, determined, and yet gentle.

“Mara—” I start, but she cuts me off softly.

“Let me help.”

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