Page 49 of Conquer
“Vadim may need you when the time comes,” I add, taking a step toward him. “If you give a damn at all, you’ll answer the door when he does.”
“Oh?” Maxim scoffs, whirling to face me. I assume some form of an insult is poised on his tongue when he stiffens, his eyes homing in on my left hip. “You’re bleeding,” he says.
Shit. Sure enough, without the overriding concern for Ainsley or Magda clouding my senses, I can feel the fiery pain ripping down my left side in full force now. A glance downward reveals a splotch of scarlet seeping through the gray fabric of my borrowed sweatshirt.
After trudging over a mile through the woods, it’s not surprising to assume I may have ripped some of my stitches.
“Well…” Wincing, I start for the back door, praying to God that I don’t track blood all over the floor. “I’ll be leaving—”
“No.” The big man rocks on his heels as if wrestling with indecision. Finally, he sighs and cocks his head. “Lucius!”
As if conjured from thin air, the kind, older gentleman, who I’m beginning to suspect may be a saint, appears near the doorway leading to the foyer. “Sir?”
Maxim nods curtly in my direction and then marches for the terrace. “Take her home.”
“Yes, Sir.” Lucius beckons me forward only to pale when he sees the blood staining my ensemble.
“It’s just a scratch,” I insist with a faint grin.
Minutes later, I’m racing up the front path and barreling into Vadim’s house. I find him in the process of leaving Magda’s room, closing the door softly behind him. From beyond his shoulder, I see her asleep on her bed, clutching It to her chest with one hand, while her other stuffed toys form a protective perimeter around her. Courtesy of her father, I suspect.
His eyes meet mine, brimming with a tenderness that makes my chest tighten. At least until he notices the blood and yanks me into his arms. Dazed, I find myself being lowered onto the bed seconds later, wrenched to lie face down as he draws my sweatshirt up.
“Damn it,” he hisses in disgust. “You’ve ripped them.”
I sigh dejectedly, pouting. “Are you going to play sexy doctor and stitch me back up?”
“No,” he says without an ounce of humor. Rising to his full height, he draws a cell phone from his pocket. “This is well beyond my skill set.”
A hint of unease seeps in at the thought of being poked and prodded by a real doctor. “What if I promise never to get up again?” I say mournfully.
“Nice try.” He shoots me a stern look before dialing a number into his phone and bringing the device to his ear. “I need your help,” he says to someone I suspect most definitely isn’t Maxim. “Preferably now.”
