Page 31 of Cruel Russian King
I sighed. He had listened to my complaints about being locked up, and missing my family and former life and promised to take me out soon, so maybe it was a peace offering.
Because men like Artyom don't feel guilt, do they?
I smiled and opened the larger box. My jaw dropped. Inside were canvases of different sizes, paints, palettes, and brushes.
I had to give it to Artyom, he knew exactly how to make amends. And since he was trying to be civilized, I could do the same. I knew he was around, since he had planned on having dinner with me.
I headed straight for his office, knowing that’s where he’d be if he was home to thank him for the gifts.
When I got there, I knocked on his door, but there was no answer. Slowly, I pushed it open, expecting to see him behind hisdesk, focused on work. Instead, he stepped out from a side door in his office.
The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, and my stomach twisted at the sight of blood staining the white fabric of his shirt at his neck.
In one hand, he clutched a first aid kit, the other pressing a white cloth firmly against the wound.
“Artyom, are you okay? What happened?” I asked, trying to keep the panic from my voice.
I wanted to slap my forehead…of course he wasn’t okay.
He looked up at me. “I’m okay. The bastard got a lucky shot off.”
He sank behind his desk.
My stomach plummeted. If the bullet had gone just an inch to the right, Artyom wouldn’t be standing here.
Why do you care?
Because even though he is a manipulative asshole, his sisters are married to my brothers. And then there is Kira, Zahkar and Yegor who would be crushed if anything happened to him.
My mind raced to my brothers. I couldn’t remember ever seeing them clean a wound. Sure, they’d sometimes have bruises on their faces or wear long-sleeved shirts instead of short, but I had always assumed they were practically invincible. Looking at Artyom now, I wondered how many scars and injuries they hid under their clothing.
I put that question at the back of my mind to ask Katya and Vera.
And thinking about how close my brothers probably came to death every single day made me worry, not just about them, but about Yegor…Zahkar, and the man in front of me, stoically tending his own wound, threading a needle, preparing to stitch himself up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And even though I wanted to look away I couldn't, something about it fascinated me. I sank into one of the chairs in front of his desk, curling my legs under me.
My eyes were wide as I spoke. “Tell me what happened…”
Artyom pressed his lips into a thin line. “Do your brothers tell you what happens in the field?”
I bite my lower lip. “Ummm, no. They share the business side of things, not the other side.”
“You mean not the violent side?” He lifted a brow and shot me a brief look after threading the needle.
“Yeah.”
“In our world one can't survive without the other…”
I watched as he filled a needle and stabbed his neck with it without flinching. And him doing that set a rush of heat between my thighs.
“Does it mean you aren't going to tell me?” I asked more breathlessly than I would've liked.
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn't have asked if I didn't,” I countered.
I watched as Artyom touched the side of his neck. Then he opened one of his drawers and pulled out a standing mirror and set it on the table.
