by Renee Rose
“Oleg, you’re bleeding. I don’t know how much you’ve already lost. I need to get you help.”
No.
I swear I can almost hear the word in my head, he projects it so loudly. He struggles back up to his feet, shaking his head.
Tears of frustration spike my eyes. I’m not the type to just override someone’s wishes, but I’m also not sure he’s capable of making a sound decision right now. “What happened to you?” I ask again, which is stupid because I know he can’t speak.
I arrive at the only other option that makes sense. “You have to come inside. Can you make it?”
He steps forward, but his leg gives out. His face contorts in obvious pain. He looks down at the blood-soaked fabric like he’s surprised.
Then he scans the area, even though I’m not sure he can even focus.
I slam the van doors and lock them then tuck myself against his side, pulling his arm around my shoulders, so I can support him. “Let’s go. We’ll get you to my place, okay?”
He allows me to lead him into the building.
It takes forever to get him up three flights of stairs. I’m nearly in tears the whole time because he’s in a ton of pain, a little groan escaping him with each hard jostle. Thankfully, none of my neighbors pick this time to go up or down the stairs because I’d have a hard time explaining. And somehow, I get the feeling that whatever happened to Oleg isn’t something he wants the authorities to know about.
When we get to the last flight of stairs, Oleg faceplants against the wall when he loses his balance.
I cry out for him and grab his arm tight. “Oleg, you can do it. We’re almost there. This is my floor. Just a few more steps.”
He hobbles up them, and I push open the door.
“Come here.” I bring him into the bathroom. “I need to get you cleaned up.”
He leans against the door like he’s weak. No—like he’s dizzy.
“Did you get hit on the head?”
He reaches his hand behind his head and winces when his fingers touch it.
“Oleg,” I moan. This time the tears spill.
Oleg’s head jerks up when I sniff and alarm passes over his expression. He reaches out, his thumb roughly wiping a tear from my cheek.
“No—it’s okay. I’m just crying for you. I don’t know what happened, and I’m scared for you. And I feel bad that you’re hurting.”
Oleg’s brows knit. He’s breathing hard from the trek up the stairs. He catches my face in both his hands and brings his forehead down to mine. We pant together, our breath mingling. His skin is cold against mine. God, he must have hypothermia by now!
After a moment, after his breathing slows, he presses his lips to my forehead.
I blink rapidly, still fighting off the urge to cry. “Let’s get you out of these bloody jeans.” I unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper.
He leans his hip against the bathroom cabinet—I’m guessing because he can’t stand up on his own—and lets me pull them down. He doesn’t hiss or flinch when I get to his wound, but I’m sure it hurts.
A chunk of flesh seems to be missing. There’s a hole in his jeans above it. “What caused this? A bullet?”
Oleg doesn’t confirm with a nod or shake, but I’m sure I’m right. Not that I’ve seen a bullet wound before, but this has to be what it is.
“I think you got lucky,” I tell him. I don’t think the bullet hit anything. I doubt it’s still inside him. It seems like it just nicked the side of his leg.
His jeans are sticky and stiff with blood, which makes them harder to remove, but I manage to get them down to his feet, then I help him toe out of his boots, so I can get them all the way off.
“Um, I’m thinking of a bath to clean the blood off and warm you up.” I look at the wound. Maybe that’s a bad idea. “Or does that sound terrible?”
He takes off his jacket and shirt, which I take to mean he’s on board.
I turn on warm water and plug the drain then help him get his shirt off.
His chest is gorgeous—a solid muscle dusted with hair and covered in tattoos. They creep up his neck and all the way down his arms. They’re markings of some kind. A rose on his chest. A manacle on one wrist. A dagger with drops of blood. If I didn’t know with total certainty that Oleg is safe for me, I would find his appearance intimidating. I imagine that’s what he’s going for.
I want to trace the lines of every one of them and find out what they mean, but now’s not the time. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pull them down to the floor.
Oleg’s cock lengthens before my eyes, and I try to ignore it. It’s a beautiful hard-on, but this is so not the right time.
I take his big arm to help him to the bathtub. He steps into the water carefully, throwing a hand out to catch the wall, like he got dizzy again, and then slowly sinks into the water with a groan.
“Oleg,” I whisper brokenly.
I could never be a nurse. It freaking kills me to see him damaged like this. I feel dizzy and woozy just watching him deal with it. Like my body experiences his pain.
He leans his head back against the tile and closes his eyes. I’m not sure if he passed out or not. Whether I should wake him. Don’t they say with concussions, you should keep the person awake? Of course, I found him unconscious in the van, so that train probably already boarded.
The water turns an orange-pink from the blood. I get a washcloth to clean off his leg, gently wiping around the wound, but avoiding touching it. I will pour alcohol on it when he gets out.
I’m on my knees beside the bath, all wrapped up in trying to figure out what to do for him when his hand settles on my back. I look up and find his lids open by a fraction. He strokes my hip.
He’s soothing me. Or maybe thanking me. It’s hard to be sure. I guess it doesn’t matter—the energy is the same.
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” I say, my voice getting rough at the end. “I hope it wasn’t because you drove me home.”
He shakes his head, and his fingers squeeze my side.
“Do you know who did this to you?”
His gaze shifts to the tile wall. He’s ignoring my question. I get the feeling he does that a lot. Being mute lets him opt out of conversation.
A loud jangle from the floor startles me. It’s Oleg’s phone. His expression registers alarm. I lunge for it, thinking it might be important and find it in his jeans pocket.
The screen reads something in Russian letters. “Do you want to get this?”
He snatches it from my hand, and I think it must be important, but then he smashes the phone against the lip of the tub three times until it shatters into dozens of pieces.
My mouth drops open, and I jerk back at the sudden violence of the movement.
Oleg notices and holds up his hands, as if to show he’s no threat to me.
“Jesus,” I whisper, still shocked. “What’s going on?”
He catches my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my fingers softly before letting it go. That’s a thank you. Or maybe an apology. He’s showing me there will be no violence toward me.
I pull his hand to my own mouth and return the gesture. “I’m going to get you some ibuprofen, okay? Are you all right here?”
He nods.
I do a quick safety check and decide he’s too big to drown in the tub, even if he passes out while I’m gone, then leave.
When I come back, I bring a glass of blueberry juice I had in the refrigerator because I figure he probably hasn’t put anything in his belly since the beer he drank last night.
He seems to be passed out again.
“Oleg?”
He doesn’t stir. His head lols to the side like he’s out cold.
I set the juice and ibuprofen down on the counter, my heart picking up speed again. “Oleg? Are you okay?” I put one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his face and lifting it upright.
He makes a sound, but it seems to take great effort for him to open his
eyes. When he does, it takes a while for him to focus on my face.
I check the back of his head, where he rubbed before. He doesn’t have a huge bump, but there is a two-inch cut, as if whatever hit him struck so hard it split the skin on impact. I feel like I’ve heard that where concussions are involved, you want to have a goose egg. The lack of a goose egg is more of a problem.
I don’t like that he doesn’t have a bigger bump. I make a note to Google it and also to bring him an ice pack for it. And alcohol.
“Here, can you take this ibuprofen?” I hold out my hand up to his mouth to drop them in.
He doesn’t move.
“Open,” I order.
He still doesn’t move.
“It’s just ibuprofen, see?” I open my palm to show him the three pills. “I have Tylenol if you prefer that.”
He opens his lips a tiny bit. Not enough for me to be able to drop the pills in.
“Open more, Oleg.”
His jaw opens a bit wider and shock flashes through my body like a lightning strike. I suddenly understand why he didn’t want to open his mouth, and I want to bawl like a baby.
Oleg is missing his tongue.
Oh God.
Part of his tongue. It looks like someone cut it in half. That’s why he can’t talk.
It’s all I can do to not show my shock. To not drop to my knees and weep for him. But I hold back my sob and drop the pills in his mouth then hand him the juice glass. He drips water on the floor when he lifts his hand to take the glass and swallows down the entire contents of the glass.
“Do you want more? Or something to eat?”
He shakes his head. His eyes are already closed.
“Hey, let me get you out of there before you pass out again. I don’t like the idea of you lying in cold water.”
His eyes crack, but he doesn’t move. I push up my sleeve and dip my hand in the water, reaching for the plug.
His butt’s in the way. I slide my palm around the curve. “Move over.”
He groans as he moves, and I pull the drain.
“Okay, now I’m really worried about getting you out of there. Please say you can stand up?”
He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.
“Oleg. Can you get out of the tub?”
He nods without opening his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I just want to get you into my bed before you pass out again. Okay?”
Another nod.
Still no cracked lids.
“Please?”
Water splashes as he moves abruptly. It’s like he was marshalling his strength for the move. He lumbers to stand, catching the wall with his hand again.
I slide the bath rug to meet the place his foot is going to land when he steps out then jump beside him, so he can lean on me if he needs to.
He makes it out without toppling, thank God. I grab a towel from the rack. “Hang on just a second.” I hurriedly dry him off, taking care not to knock him off balance. He holds the wall, his expression a stoic mask. I do a half-assed job, but it’s better than him getting the bed wet. I wrap the towel around his waist and then wrap my arm firmly behind his back. “Okay, let’s get you to my room.”
I get him in there and fall down on the bed with him, trying to get him in it. He rolls onto his side and groans. I curl up, facing him, staring at his pained expression, unwilling to leave him.
He watches me watching him. Time lengthens. Stands still. I don’t know how long I stay there. Long after his eyes close, and he passes out. I curl my hand into his, holding his fingers, wishing I knew what to do.
Chapter 3
Oleg
I wake not sure how long I’ve been out. I shove the covers off and attempt to sit up. I wait until the room stops spinning and my stomach stops lurching before I focus and look around. I’m naked, but there’s a gauze bandage taped to my leg, covering the bullet wound, and my clothes are folded neatly on a chair. Story must’ve dressed my wound and washed the clothes for me at some point. I pull on my t-shirt, almost falling to the floor in agony when the neckhole passes over the bruise on my head. I take my time putting on my boxer briefs, not trusting myself to stand yet.
I’m guessing I’ve been out of it for at least twenty-four hours, considering I woke during the night, and now it’s light again. And it was morning when Story found me. I think.
Story. She’s been in and out of the room, bringing me more ibuprofen and juice. I have a vague recollection of her lying beside me during the night, but that could’ve just been a fantasy. Every time I woke, the usual adrenaline pumped through my veins, my normal agitation of existence revved up, but then I remembered where I was—not in prison, not in my own room, but in Story’s apartment, and the noisiest place inside me quieted.
Being near my little lastochka—my swallow—soothes a lifetime of struggle.
I know it won’t last. I know I can’t remain here forever. I need to figure out who’s after me and what they want. Eliminate them.
I smashed my phone thinking they might have put a tracker in it although in my more lucid moments, I realize they aren’t that sophisticated. They’re not like my pakhan Ravil’s bratva cell. I highly doubt they have someone like Dima who can hack anything. Or a Fixer like Maxim. They didn’t seem organized or high-tech.
They are idiot criminals unprepared for the job they were sent to do.
I’m not dumb enough to think whoever sent them won’t rectify his mistake the next time, though. And that brings on sharp realization.
Those guys were waiting for me. Which means they might know where Story lives.
No… maybe not. They would’ve been waiting outside the door.
The van.
They must’ve followed the van. My brain is so fucking fuzzy it’s hard to think this through. Maybe they got behind in traffic, but then spotted it again after I’d parked?
That has to be it.
I lunge off the bed, a hoarse cry coming out of my throat. Fuck. I hate it when I make noise.
Story runs from her small living area and meets me at the doorway to the bedroom. She’s barefoot, looking gorgeous in leggings and a long dusty rose sweater that falls off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin and delicate collar bones. She isn’t wearing her usual heavy eyeliner and stage makeup, and she’s even more alluring fresh-faced.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
I look around wildly for the keys to the van. Every turn of my head makes the apartment spin. The pounding in my skull makes me want to chop it off my neck. I spot her purse by the door and point.
Story looks over her shoulder, searching. “What is it?”
I clomp past her, stumbling when the floor dips and my feet seem to slide off the surface. I catch myself on the sofa and keep going. When I reach her purse, I root through it, relieved when I find the keys there. I hold them up and point outside.
“You want me to take you somewhere?”
Blyad'.
I shake my head.
“You want to drive?” she asks dubiously.
I nod. I need to move that van. But moving my head makes a wave of nausea climb up my throat. Great. I’m dizzy, and now I need to puke.
“Here!” Story runs and grabs a notebook and pen then brings them back to me.
Fuck.
“Write it,” she encourages.
I hate myself for never bothering to learn the Roman alphabet. Ravil requires his men to only speak English in the penthouse. He wants everyone in his cell to speak it perfectly, to make sure we blend in and avoid discrimination. So I understand it completely. But I, of course, was exempt from speaking it, so I also made myself exempt from learning to write it. Stupid, stupid mistake.
Frustrated, I snatch the pen up and write in Russian, “Move the van.”
She stares at the words. “Shit. You don’t write in English.”
I shake my head. If I hadn’t busted my phone I could find a translation app to help us right now, but I already screwed t
hat up.
“Fuck!”
I take the pen and draw a terrible rendering of the van and the street outside. Then I draw a few more streets. I drag a penline from the van down the street and over a few blocks and then make an X.
“You want to move the van.”
Relief pours through me. Gospodi, how did she even figure that out? I swear the girl can read my mind. She’s magical.
I grip both her shoulders to show how important it is and nod.
“Got it.” She grabs the keys from me then takes her coat off the rack by the door.
I catch her arm and shake my head, pointing at my chest. I can’t have her move the van. What if someone is out there?
“You aren’t going anywhere. You can barely stand,” she tells me. “I’ll be right back. Let me get you to the sofa.”
Dammit. I can’t let her go for me. I reach for the keys, but she dances out of my reach, and the room spins around me.
“Okay, I’m going before you kill yourself trying to stop me. Be back in a minute.”
I groan and make my way to the window to look out. I’m relieved when she makes it to the van safely and pulls out.
Only then do I find my way to the couch where I collapse and breathe into the nausea. The couch is old but comfortable. Story’s place is nice. Not fancy but very comfortable. It’s an old building. The ceilings are high with old-fashioned molding, and the floors are oak. They could use a refinishing, but they’ve worn well. There’s real art on the walls. Not expensive matching art but a random assortment of paintings, framed photographs and poems. Like she lives in a world of artists who all contributed something to her place.
Story returns fifteen minutes later and tosses her bag and coat on the rack by the door. “Done. You want something to eat?”
I shake my head.
“You haven’t had anything but a little juice in twenty-four hours. I think you need to try to eat.”
I don’t answer. At home I rarely communicate with my cell brothers. They’re used to my blank expressions, and they don’t try to talk to me unless it’s important. Sasha, our fixer Maxim’s new bride, tries sometimes. But this thing with Story is fucking painful. She keeps asking questions, watching me for answers. Trying to connect.
