Page 28 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
Her body stiffens under mine, defiance sparking even now. “I’m not useless,” she hisses, though her hands still clutch at the asphalt like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored.
“You’re alive,” I counter. My voice drops, quieter, harsher. “That’s enough.”
For a moment, she holds my stare, fear battling stubbornness in her eyes. The chaos rages around us—my men shouting, gunfire hammering metal, glass spraying across the street—but all I see is her, pressed beneath me, refusing to look away even when she’s terrified.
Her lip trembles. She nods once.
“Good,” I breathe, forcing steel into the word. I shift my grip on her arm, squeezing just enough to anchor her there. “Stay put. No matter what.”
Another round slams into the hood above us, sparks raining down. She flinches, but she doesn’t move. I can feel her pulse hammering through her arm where I hold her, frantic but steadying. Even through her terror, there’s something else—a strange, fragile thread of trust.
She’s terrified. I can feel it in every shiver of her frame, every shallow breath. But she’s still here, letting me cover her, letting me take the brunt of fire meant for both of us.
In the middle of the chaos, I know one thing with certainty: she doesn’t realize it yet, but being under me is the safest place she’ll ever be.
The rhythm of the fight changes before my mind fully registers it. The bursts of gunfire grow shorter, then scattered, then—silence. A silence that isn’t clean, but jagged. The world still rings in my ears, sharp and shrill, as if the air itself has split.
I stay over Annie, chest pressed to her back, every muscle coiled. Smoke drifts in thin ribbons, acrid and bitter, stinging the back of my throat. The scent of cordite clings to everything, mixing with the iron tang of blood already cooling on the pavement.
A groan rises somewhere down the block. Another voice shouts in Russian—one of mine, clipped and commanding. Boots crunch through broken glass, doors slam, metal creaks as cars are checked for movement.
Annie stirs beneath me, her hands curling against the ground. “It’s… it’s over?” Her voice is hoarse, raw from holding her breath too long.
“Not until I say it is.” I shift slightly, scanning the rooftops, the shadows between the buildings. My eyes cut through every alley, every window. Waiting for the second wave. It doesn’t come. I don’t ease up.
“Dimitri.” Her tone sharpens now, cutting through the ringing in my ears. “You’re bleeding.”
I don’t answer.
Her hand pushes at my chest, tentative but firm. “Let me see it.”
“No.” The refusal is sharp, final.
She lifts her head enough to catch my gaze. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, her face streaked with dust. Her mouth is set. “I’m not moving until you let me.”
We stare at each other in the smoky dark, gunfire still echoing faintly in memory. She means it.
A voice calls from the street corner. “Clear!”
Another answers with numbers—casualty counts, ammunition spent. Their tones are clipped, efficient, as disciplined as I trained them to be. The fight is over.
Slowly, I ease back, giving Annie space to sit up. She does, immediately twisting toward my arm. The bullet’s path burned a line across my bicep, tearing cloth and skin alike. The wound is shallow, but the blood runs steady, soaking dark through my sleeve.
Her breath catches when she sees it. “God—”
“It’s nothing,” I cut in.
She ignores me, fingers already tugging at her coat, tearing fabric free. Her hands tremble, but her movements are deliberate. She bunches the material, presses it against my arm. Blood seeps through instantly, warm against her skin. She flinches but doesn’t stop.
“Hold still.” Her voice shakes, but it’s more command than plea.
I study her, silent, as she works. Her hands are too small against my arm, her fingers shaking so hard she nearly drops the cloth. She doesn’t quit. She presses harder, teeth clenched, her breath quick and shallow.
“You’re wasting your coat,” I say.
“I don’t care.”
Her eyes flick to mine for a heartbeat, and something in them burns hotter than fear. Anger. Relief. Something else she doesn’t want to name.
