Page 111 of Violent Possession
Definitely Alexei.
I close my eyes again and turn on the sofa. I want to sleep. I want to pass out, to fall back into that tunnel of absence where nothing hurts.
“Be fucking quiet. I’m trying to sleep.”
I hear his footsteps approaching, stopping beside me. I don’t move. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave me alone.
“Griffin.” My name in his voice exists on another frequency, lower and more direct. “What happened to your leg?”
I open one eye, then the other. Alexei’s outlines are so sharp they seem drawn with a black pen against the gray background of the room. He’s standing, looking at the bandage I put on, which now has a dark red stain spreading across it.
“Nothing you need to worry about, mommy,” I murmur, my voice hoarse from sleep. “I’ll handle it.”
“Clearly,” he says, dryly. “Get up. This needs to be cleaned before it gets infected and I have to cut your leg off.”
“You and your mutilation fetish,” I grumble, but I’m already getting up, testing the weight of my leg on the floor.
The world spins. My good arm rests on the back of the sofa, the stump and my thigh throb, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
Alexei disappears toward the bathroom and returns with a first-aid kit. He kneels in front of me, and his touch on my thighs is delicate, meticulous, very different from what I would expect from someone who has killed at least twelve people. Probably. He pulls at the torn jeans, cuts the fabric with round-tipped scissors, and begins to remove the bandage.
The clotted blood makes a wet, pornographic sound as it detaches from the skin. I sigh because I know it will get worse before it gets better.
“The stitches have opened,” he says, without even looking at me.
“Genius,” I retort, and the word dissolves into a grimace of pain as he pours antiseptic on the wound. “Fuck, that stings.”
“Maybe, next time, you’ll avoid crossing three neighborhoods with a bullet in your leg?” He speaks in the tone of someone explaining a basic concept to a stupid child.
“How did you...” I start, but then I stop. It all makes sense. “Ah. The fucking bracelet.”
“The fucking bracelet,” he confirms.
He continues to clean the wound, focused.
It’s strange, because normally the silence between us is like the tense calm before a storm. But now it’s just concentration.
I watch the way he handles cotton, gauze, adhesive tape. A model’s hands.
I remember what Schmidt said about Seraphim:he takes care of his own. Alexei does too.
“Just try not to stick a piece of your hundred-thousand-dollar suit in there this time,” I say, to break the tension. “It took me hours to get the last thread out.”
A twitch at the corner of his mouth. An almost-smile. “Quality fabric accelerates healing,” he replies, finally sticking a new bandage on the skin. It’s also strange to see how every gesture of his is perfect, as if he’s rehearsed his whole life for this role and doesn’t accept improvisation.
“Of course it does,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He finishes the job and stays a second longer with his hands resting on my knee. I don’t know if it’s for provocation or because he’s really thinking about the next step. His gaze rises, slowly, to my face.
“Now,” he says, and fixes his eyes on my shoulder, “take off your shirt.”
I let out a short laugh, but I don’t question it. I lean back, pull the old T-shirt off by the collar, careful not to snag the stump on the fabric.
My torso is covered in new bruises mixed with old ones, marks of recent violence and memories that never quite heal. I feel his gaze travel over every detail, every scar, before moving to the second bandage. The one I didn’t change when I arrived.
He sighs. Then, he leans forward and begins to examine my shoulder. The smell of alcohol, mixed with Alexei’s own scent—something citrusy, clean, expensive—starts to make me dizzy.
His hand slides along my collarbone, presses lightly, looking for any new fracture or dislocation. The touch is cold, but every centimeter he advances seems to set my skin on fire.
