Page 78 of Beautifully Deranged

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. The floor is white, or supposed to be white, but it’s stained. Old blood baked into the grout. The walls, the stools, the goddamn lights are all this sickly white too. But what cuts deeper than any of that is the fresh streak across the tile in front of me. His blood. My Mikhail.

I’m on the floor outside the unit Roman keeps hidden in his mansion, for emergencies. I wish I’d memorized every sterile cabinet, every machine, every face of the crew he called in, because one of them is cutting into Mikhail right now, and I don’t even know their name.

I’m choking on my own breathing, trying to muffle the sobs in my hair. Not once did I say: I love you. It’s tearing me up inside. That man just took a bullet for me. I should’ve told him when he saw the darkest parts of me and still loved them. When he kissed me like I was the only oxygen he knew. When he looked at me like I was the only thing tethering him to this earth.

I press my forehead to my knees, gripping my legs until my nails cut in. The cold from the tile floor seeps into my bones, but it’s not even close to how icy my heart feels. The only man I’ve ever loved is bleeding out behind a white fucking door.

Please, Mikhail. Please stay.

Because I can survive anything. Except losing you. A soft shift of fabric brushes my shoulder. A blanket. It’s only then I realize how violently I’ve been shaking. My teeth won’t stop chattering, my hands are numb, and my body—God, my body feels like it’s falling apart cell by cell.

Someone lowers themselves beside me.

I lift my head, and strands of hair fall from my face, sticky with tears and sweat. Roman. His eyes are colder than the fucking tile under me. The same eyes as Mikhail’s. Same blood, same brutality. But none of the warmth I crave.

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.

“You were right.”

“What?” I sigh, exhausted from everything.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “You did what I couldn’t.”

His knuckles flex against his knee. “I let myself have a weakness. I convinced myself it wouldn’t cost anything. It won’t happen again.”

His words go in one ear and straight out the other. Because why the hell would I care about his praise? His cold attempt at comfort? I don’t want absolution. I want Mikhail.

I want him breathing and cursing and warm and alive. Not fighting for his life while I sit useless on the floor.

“Your brother…” I choke on the words, then force them out. “He’s all I want.”

“He’s strong,” he says roughly. “Stupidly strong.”

I press my lips together. I don’t want promises. I want his heartbeat under my palm. His voice in my ear, snarling and sweet and rough all at once. I want him to live.

Roman doesn’t leave me alone. I don’t ask why he stays. I think he doesn’t know either. Every so often, Sergei comes back. He crouches in front of me and presses a water bottle to my lips. “Drink,” he says softly. Over and over.

If I weren’t sinking into this black hole inside me, I might’ve found it sweet. But it’s not Mikhail’s hands bringing me water. It’s not Mikhail whispering things to soothe the war inside my chest.

It’s not Mikhail beside me. And that makes it worse. Becauseevery kind thing anyone does is a reminder that it’s not him. The blood on the tile has mostly dried, but a few streaks remain fresh.

I stare at it until my eyes burn. Time folds in on itself. Minutes blur. Hours melt. My muscles ache, and I don’t move.

My heart drops to my ass when the surgeon comes out, eyes bloodshot, mask hanging off one ear.

“He’s lucky. The bullet hit just above the iliac crest,” he says. “It missed the liver and kidney. Barely. If it had gone even a few centimeters lower, it would've been very different. We expected more damage from the blood loss,” he continues, “but there’s no major vessel trauma. He’ll wake up in a few hours. With rest, four to five weeks and he’ll be back to normal.”

Back to normal.

No major vessels.

Missed the organs.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Lucky.

---