Page 58 of Bound By the Bratva

I sob—actually sob—as I reach for him, my hands shaking so violently I'm afraid I might drop him. But then his weight settles into my arms and he's solid and warm and real, and I hold him so tightly against me that he whimpers in discomfort.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whisper into his hair, loosening my grip just enough to let him breathe. "I'm so sorry. Mama's here now. Mama's got you."

He doesn't pull away. Instead, he burrows deeper against my shoulder and wraps his thin arms around my neck with a desperation that tells me more about his ordeal than any words could. He smells like dried sweat and something metallic that makes my stomach clench, but underneath it all he still smells like my son.

When I look up to thank Rolan, to ask him what happened and how badly Nikolai is hurt and whether the men who took him are dead or just wishing they were, I find empty space where he stood moments before.

He's already walking away, his broad shoulders disappearing through the doorway that leads to the east wing. He doesn't look back, doesn't speak, doesn't acknowledge that he just returned the most precious thing in my world to my arms.

Dr. Isaev appears at my elbow with the quiet efficiency of someone accustomed to medical emergencies in the Vetrovhousehold. He examines Nikolai with gentle hands while I hold him, checking his pupils and pulse and the angry red line across his shoulder where someone—some animal—cut him with a blade.

"Superficial," the doctor murmurs, more to himself than to me. "He'll need proper cleaning and stitching, but nothing vital was damaged."

I carry Nikolai upstairs to one of the guest rooms, settling him on the bed while Dr. Isaev tends to his wound with supplies from his ever-present medical bag. My son is quiet during the treatment, not crying or complaining, just watching everything with those too-serious eyes that have seen things no child should ever witness.

"Are the bad men gone, Mama?" he asks as the doctor applies the final bandage.

"Yes, baby," I tell him, smoothing his dark hair away from his forehead. "Batyamade sure they can't hurt you anymore."

He nods solemnly, as if this makes perfect sense to him. As if he always knew that when the monsters came for him, Rolan Vetrov would come hunting them in return.

Once Nikolai falls asleep—exhaustion finally claiming him despite everything—I leave him in the care of two guards who look like they'd rather die than let anything happen to him again. Then I storm through the estate's corridors toward Rolan's suite, fury and gratitude and a dozen other emotions I can't name burning in my chest like competing fires.

I don't knock. I simply push through the heavy doors and find him standing beside his bed, methodically peeling off his bloodstained tactical jacket. His white shirt underneath is stained crimson across the chest and sleeves, and his knuckles are raw and split from whatever violence he visited upon the men who took our son.

He looks up when I enter but doesn't speak, just continues undressing with the mechanical precision of someone performing a familiar ritual.

"Tell me everything," I demand with just a touch of desperation. "How did you find him? How badly was he hurt? Did you kill them?"

Rolan drops the ruined jacket onto the floor and begins unbuttoning his shirt. "The Zharovs won't be touching you or Nikolai again."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's all you need to know."

His shirt joins the jacket on the floor, revealing a torso marked with ink and new bruises that tell the story of recent violence. There's blood under his fingernails and splattered across his forearms—but definitely not his own.

"I need to know if it's over," I press, stepping closer. "I need to know if my son is safe."

"Your son is safe." He moves to the bathroom doorway and pauses, his back to me. "He's always been safe. The moment he became mine, he became untouchable."

Mine. Not ours. Mine. The possessiveness in his voice should irritate me, but instead it sends something warm and fierce racing through my veins.

"What about mybatya?" The question emerges before I can stop it. "If the Zharovs knew where to find Nikolai, they might know where to find him too."

Rolan turns back to face me, and there's something cold and final in his dark eyes. "Pyotr is being watched. If the Zharovs try to touch him, they'll die before they get out of their car."

"But what if?—"

"I'm handling it, Anya." His voice slices through my protests. "I'm handling all of it."

The certainty in his tone, the absolute confidence that he can control everything and everyone who might threaten what belongs to him, should terrify me. Instead, it breaks something loose inside my chest that I've been holding locked away since the moment I agreed to his deal six years ago.

I cross the room to him in three quick strides and rise up on my toes to kiss him with all the desperation and gratitude and terrifying need that I've been trying to deny since I walked back into his world.

The kiss is fierce and possessive and everything I haven't let myself feel until this moment when the alternative—losing him, losing this, losing the safety he's built around us—seems unbearable.

He doesn't ask why I'm kissing him or what's changed or what this means for whatever twisted arrangement we've been dancing around. He simply lifts me onto his dresser with hands that are still stained with the blood of men who threatened his family and shows me exactly how much he needs this too.

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