Page 30 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The graze is deeper than I thought. The bullet carved a line along his bicep, raw and angry, blood still welling up and sliding down the curve of muscle There’s a second, smaller wound above the first where the original bullet must have scraped.
“You’re not invincible,” I mutter before I can stop myself, my voice tight. “No matter how much you act like it.”
His lips twitch, the faintest smirk breaking through the stillness. “Would you prefer I cry about it?”
I glare at him, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. “Don’t tempt me.”
I grab the antiseptic, my hands shaking as I flip the cap and soak a pad. It’s not fear making me tremble—it’s how close I am, how every inch between us is filled with his presence. I can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unblinking, fixed on my face as if I’m the one under scrutiny.
I press the pad to his wound. He tenses instantly, muscles coiling hard, but he doesn’t flinch. Not a sound escapes him. His jaw tightens, the corded line of it sharp in the firelight. His eyes narrow, a flash of something dangerous beneath the calm, but he endures it in silence.
I work quickly, trying not to notice the warmth of his skin under my fingers, the way the blood smears across my hand as I clean. Every second feels stretched thin, the air between us thick enough to choke on.
“You shielded me,” I say, my voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “You could’ve taken a bullet to the chest.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I didn’t. We’re both fine.”
“Yeah, well. We might not have been.” The words come sharper than I mean, my frustration spilling out.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, his calm against my ragged pulse. The silence between us swells, heavy and unspoken, filled with everything I can’t ask and everything he won’t say.
I finish cleaning, my hand still trembling slightly, but I don’t look away from him. Not until the silence threatens to swallow me whole.
The gauze wraps clumsily around his arm, my fingers fumbling as I pull it tight and fix it in place. The tape doesn’t sit as neatly as I’d like, but it holds.
Blood stains the white almost immediately, a dark bloom spreading outward, but at least it’s controlled now. I sit back on my heels, a shaky breath escaping before I can stop it.
It’s done. I’ve done what I can. My hands still tremble, betraying me even as I force them steady.
I reach for the kit, eager to pack it away, to create some distance before the words crowding my throat spill free. If I stay too close, I’ll say something reckless—something I can’t take back. The scrape of plastic and metal against the floor feels loud in the quiet room.
Before I can stand, his hand closes around my wrist.
The grip is firm but not cruel, steady enough to stop me cold. I freeze, eyes snapping to his face. He doesn’t thank me. Dimitri Sharov doesn’t offer something as simple as gratitude. He just looks at me—long, unblinking, heavy. The weight of his gaze makes my pulse stumble, my throat go dry.
For a moment, I think about pulling free. My body even twitches toward it. But something in his eyes stops me. There’s no anger there, no cruelty, just a depth I can’t read. It roots me in place.
“You think you’ve won something tonight?” His voice is low, almost soft, but the words cut sharper than gunfire.
“I wasn’t trying to win,” I whisper back.
His thumb shifts just slightly against my skin, a gesture more deliberate than accidental. “Sure.”
The words are clipped, harsh, but his hand doesn’t let go. For a long moment, the only sound is the fire crackling in the hearth, the pop of burning wood echoing in the stillness.
The air feels too thick, too charged. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, loud enough I’m sure he must hear it. My wristtingles where his fingers press, warmth sparking beneath my skin.
I should pull away. I should tell him to let me go. Instead, I stay, trapped not by his grip but by the intensity of his stare, and I realize with a shiver that I’m not sure I want him to release me.
His grip lingers longer than it should, heat searing into my skin, before he finally releases me. The absence of his touch aches more than I expect, like the blood has rushed out too quickly, leaving me hollow. I pull back fast, rising to my feet. My hand curls against my chest as though I can hold on to what just happened, or maybe hide it.
“I… I need air,” I mutter, the words clumsy, tripping out before I can think. I don’t wait for a response. If I stay another second, I’ll say something I can’t take back. My steps carry me too quickly across the room, heels clicking sharp against the marble, a sound that betrays nerves instead of strength.
I don’t look back.
When the door shuts, the silence expands, heavy and final.
I know his thoughts aren’t on pain—they’re on me. On how I pressed forward when I should have retreated, how I insisted on tending him even when he made it clear he didn’t need me. It wasn’t mercy. It was defiance dressed as care, and it tells him more than words could.
