Page 27 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
“You’re bleeding, Anya,” he says, tension flooding his voice.
I look down at my body, and while I couldn’t feel a thing before, as soon as I see the blood soaking over my thigh, I also feel the pain. It stabs through my leg like a knife. My thigh begins to throb. I wish he hadn’t noticed it. That would have been easier.
“Oh,” I whimper, touching my hand against my jeans and lifting my fingers away, sticky and red. “Oh,” I say again, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed.
Without pulling over, Emmanuil wraps his broad hand around my leg, rubbing his hand over it. “It looks like the bullet skimmed past you, not through you, but there’s no way to know how deep it cut.”
“A graze?” I whisper, relieved. “It’s just a graze?” My voice is tight, hopeful. I can feel the blood draining from my face.
“It looks like it.” He glances into my eyes. “Hey, you’re going to be okay, I promise you,” he says gently. “Press your hands against it. It will slow the bleeding. We’re almost home.”
Emmanuil falls quiet as he speeds around corners, racing towards the mansion. His focus is entirely on getting us home.
I’m scared.
More scared of what’s going to happen at home than the fact that I got shot. It hurts, but I think that facing Emmanuil’s angryI told you sowhile he blames me for all of this is going to be worse.
I keep glancing nervously at him, trying to read his expression. But his face is set like stone, rigid with focus, his hands gripped tight around the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched.
This is going to be a lecture worse than anything I ever got from my brother. Emmanuil was already angry with me—it’s bound to be a hundred times worse now. We turn into the security gates of his mansion, and I start biting my lower lip, squirming with anxiety.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, looking at me.
“Mm.” I nod tightly.
He climbs out of the car. I push the passenger door open, and he’s already standing there. He doesn’t say a word. He just leans into the car and lifts me, cradling me in his arms. I let out a surprised yelp, wanting to demand that he put me down. I don’t want to be lectured while being treated like a fragile little bird. I’d rather be standing on my feet, even if it hurts or I’m unsteady.
But I don’t tell him to put me down; instead, I find myself leaning my cheek against his shoulder and closing my eyes, letting his warmth calm my racing heart.
And after all my worries, Emmanuil doesn’t lecture me.
He carries me inside, upstairs to his private bathroom off his bedroom, and gently sets me down on the edge of the bathtub.
“I’m going to need you to take off your pants, Anya.”
I scrunch my face and rear back. “I’m not taking my pants off!“
“How am I supposed to help you if I can’t get to the wound?” he sighs. “Stop being a pain in the ass and let me help you.”
With my mouth pulled to the side, I roll my eyes and carefully stand up to wiggle out of my jeans. Emmanuil crouches in front of me to help me. I set my hand on his shoulder for balance. The more I move, the more it hurts. And peeling theblood-soaked fabric away from the wound, where the blood is drying a little and the jeans are sticking to my skin, hurts even more.
I wince and he pauses. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Just get them off.”
He slides my jeans off and pushes them away, across the floor.
There’s a lot of blood, but thankfully it’s not too deep. It’s right across the side of my thigh, a long jagged sort of tear. It’s going to leave a decent scar.
“Sit down,” he says, gently pushing me to sit on the edge of the tub again.
He runs his hands slowly over both my legs, brushing up my thighs as he examines the wound. I don’t think he’s even conscious that he’s touching me like this. My blood is pumping faster, his touch sending an electric spark pulsing through me.
I don’t even want him to stop, because it’s distracting me from the pain.
But it’s causing my head to spin in different ways.
Emmanuil picks up a little white bottle with a spray nozzle, and I squeal.
