Page 25 of Savage Reins
"And you fought them alone?"
"Didn't have a choice."
She approaches slowly, like she might approach a spooked horse. When she's close enough, she reaches up to examine the cut on my forehead. Her touch is gentle, careful not to cause more pain.
"You need medical attention."
"I need to call Vadim. Let him know what happened."
"After we get you cleaned up." She looks at my shoulder, where blood has soaked through my shirt. "Can you move your arm?"
I rotate my shoulder experimentally. It hurts, but nothing feels broken or torn. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. None of this is fine." Her voice shakes slightly.
"Help me to my room," I grumble.
I want to argue, but the adrenaline is fading, leaving behind exhaustion and pain. The fight is over, but the consequences are just beginning. The Karpins will report back to Dima, and he'll report to his bosses. This attack was a test—a way to gauge how serious the Vetrovs are about protecting their interests here.
Now they know.
10
MIRA
His face has gone pale beneath the blood and bruises, and his breathing comes shallowly and carefully. Each step requires effort, his injured arm draped around my shoulders making the journey clumsy and painful.
"Almost there," I murmur, one hand on his back to steady him.
He collapses onto the bed with a grunt of pain, immediately working to peel his bloodied shirt over his head. I help him ease it off, careful not to jar his injured shoulder. Without the fabric barrier, the damage becomes clear—angry purple bruises spreading across his ribs, a deep gash on his shoulder still weeping blood.
"Stay there," I tell him, moving toward the small washstand in the corner.
He doesn't argue, which tells me how much pain he's actually in. I gather what I need—clean cloth, a bowl of water, the bottle of antiseptic from the storage room whereBatyakeeps it for treating cuts on the horses. When I return to his side, he's leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw tight.
"This is going to hurt," I warn, dampening a cloth with antiseptic.
"Can't hurt worse than the crowbar."
I press the cloth to the gash on his shoulder. He hisses through his teeth, muscles tensing under my touch, but he doesn't pull away. The antiseptic fizzes against the wound, cleaning away dirt and dried blood.
"You're lucky they didn't crack your ribs," I say, examining the spreading bruises across his chest.
"I'm fine." His voice comes out as a growl more than normal speech, and he shifts uncomfortably on the narrow cot.
"You're not fine." I press my palm gently against his ribs, feeling the heat radiating from the bruised skin. "You can barely breathe without wincing."
"I'm breathing." He demonstrates with an exaggerated inhale that makes him wince despite his bravado.
"Barely." I shake my head, reaching for a clean cloth.
I rinse the cloth and move to clean a smaller cut near his collarbone. His skin is warm under my fingers, muscles solid and scarred from years of violence. This close, I can see the details of his tattoos—Orthodox crosses mixed with tribal patterns, names and dates inked in Cyrillic script.
"Hold still," I murmur, dabbing at a scrape on his jaw. He flinches away from the antiseptic.
"I am holding still." His jaw clenches as I continue cleaning the wound.
"You're flinching." I grab his chin gently to keep him from moving.
