Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
JONAH
I didn't sleep much after last night.
My body feels raw. Every shift is a reminder of what we did.
Every breath pulls at places I didn't know could ache.
Viktor fell asleep before I did, or maybe he only stilled.
It's hard to tell with him. When I asked if he was hurting, he said no, but the strain in his voice made me doubt it.
His bed is warm in a way I'm not used to.
It makes it easy to stay beside him even after my heartbeat slows.
I shouldn't get used to it. He's dangerous, and I'm just me. Someone who traded his freedom for a debt he didn't owe. My chest tightens when I think about the hospital. Would anyone even worry when I didn't show up?
I get out of bed because thoughts of doubt and self-loathing are driving me crazy.
The floor is warm underfoot, grounding in a way the mattress wasn't. Rawness stings the throat from sounds I didn't know I could make.
One shoulder carries the imprint of where he held me, and a throb pulses through the lower back with every shift.
Between the cheeks, there is a soreness I've never felt before.
Every part of it happened because he wanted it. Skin can't forget a second of it.
I stop at the piano by the window, press a key and listen to the note fade, then lift my head and take in Viktor’s room.
Most of his furniture is arranged with care.
A chair sits angled toward the window. A low table holds a glass, a book, and a folded jacket.
I usually read a person by the state of their bedroom, but this one gives me nothing back.
I suppose the same could be said of mine.
My trailer stays neat, but only because I don't own enough to leave anything out of place.
The gaze drops. The scrub top is gone, leaving ribs bare to show faint marks from his grip.
One shoulder carries a thin line from his teeth.
Nipples feel responsive when the air moves over them.
It is hard to tell if the feeling in the stomach is fear or something else.
His voice comes back, the way he said the name like he already knew what it would do.
It is hateful to remember the sound of it.
It is worse that the chest tightens when I do.
I didn't mean to sound like that. I didn't mean to want it again.
The thought lands heavy. I turn my head toward the bathroom.
The shower's still running. Viktor hasn't called for help.
I don't know if that means he's fine or just minding his own business.
Now I'm panicking. He really shouldn't be moving alone.
Not with fresh stitches and not after losing that much blood.
The nurse in me snaps awake. He could tear the wound.
He could be bracing himself against the sink right now, pretending the world isn't tilting.
Suddenly, the lock turns. The door opens without warning. Sokolov steps in first, scanning the room before his gaze lands on me. Dr. Petrov follows. His attention moves over everything from the blanket to the marks on my ribs and the way I'm half-dressed and trying to stand straight.
“Look at that. Our prince bounced back. Very nicely, in fact.” He comes closer. His eyes cut briefly toward the bathroom, then back to me. “You shouldn't even be upright,” he murmurs. “Not after whatever Viktor put you through.”
My fingers tighten on the piano’s edge.
“Careful.” Petrov lifts his medical case and sets it down with practiced precision. “If you faint, Viktor will assume I'm not looking after his nurse.”
His palm rises and I flinch. Two fingers hook under my chin and tilt my face toward the light. He studies me like he's found a flaw. “Pretty,” he says. “That clears a few things up.”
My breath stutters. I glance toward the bathroom, to where the water is still running.
“What do you think he’d do,” Petrov murmurs.
He doesn't let go of my jaw. His grip weights until it hurts.
“If he walked out right now and saw you shaking like this?” His gaze flicks to the door.
“He wouldn't stop to ask questions. He’d either tear the stitches open trying to get to you, or someone would get hurt.
“Is that what you want?” he asks quietly. “To be the reason he loses control?”
I shiver. “N—no.”
“No.” He crouches, opens his case, and metal glints inside. “Come here. I’ll show you what he needs. Because him walking around alone isn't part of the plan.”
A knot tightens in my chest. “What do you mean? I won't—”
“Sokolov.” He gestures without looking up.
Sokolov's hand clamps my wrist. He yanks me forward and pulls me flush against his side. I feel the gun at his hip.
“Closer,” Petrov murmurs. He reaches into his case and pulls out a syringe. The liquid inside sloshes with a thick viscosity. He shoves the plastic casing into my hand.
“You're the nurse, Jonah. You know the dosage. You know how to find the vein. You're going to put him under, or Sokolov gets to find out how many of your ribs can break before you pass out. Viktor likes his toys soft, but I don't mind if you're broken.”
I look at the needle, then at the bathroom door. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I can't do it. Won't do it. My grip fails, and the syringe slips from my trembling fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
Petrov snarls, snatching the syringe up. “Useless—”
“Khvatit.”
Viktor's voice cuts through the room. He's in the bathroom doorway before I can breathe. Naked. Bleeding. The bear on his chest looks black under the lights. “Let him go.”
Sokolov laughs. “Easy, prince. The boy is nothing.”
Viktor hits him. The impact cracks through the room. He pays for it instantly with a hitch in his breath and a dark stain blooming through his bandage, but he doesn't look down. “I said,” he snarls, “let him go. You don't touch what's mine.”
Sokolov crashes into the wall and slides down. Petrov snaps his fingers. “Guards.”
The door bursts open. Viktor turns just as the first man reaches him, slamming an elbow back. Someone yells. Another lunges.
He’s moving with a raw, desperate momentum that ignores the physical reality of his body, betting everything that they’re too afraid of his name to truly break him.
“Get out of my room!” Viktor roars. A guard grabs his side and Viktor's breath hitches. He ignores the man and looks only at me.
I step forward. “Don’t touch him!” I’m throwing myself in front of a monster, choosing his violence over their order.
Someone shoves me back hard, sending me sprawling against the piano.
“Jonah,” Viktor snaps. “Stay where you are.”
I've never seen a fight like this. There's blood everywhere, men swearing, furniture breaking. Viktor swings his fists like pain doesn't exist. He isn't fighting to win. He's fighting to keep them away from me. But more men pile in. We're not going to win this.
“Hold him,” Petrov says.
Viktor stumbles and my stomach drops.
“Stop, Viktor,” Sokolov pants. “You're not thinking straight.”
Viktor turns on him, feral. “Say that again.”
Three men grab him, then four. “Jonah,” Viktor shouts. “Don't move!”
I'm shaking. Fear knots low in my stomach. Then Petrov steps in close. “Sedate him.”
“No,” I say. “Please—”
Viktor bucks hard enough that two men stagger. “Jonah,” he snaps. “Stay the fuck away from him!”
Petrov already has the syringe ready. “This is containment, Viktor. Nothing personal, young bear. You need to sleep until further notice.”
The needle goes in.
Viktor roars. His body jerks violently. It takes four men to pin him, their combined weight barely holding against the force of him.
“Hold him. He needs to learn that he doesn't keep his toys when he is this weak.”
They do. I watch as Viktor's strength starts to fail in uneven pulls. His breathing stutters. His head drops back.
“Jonah,” he manages. “Stay—”
His legs give. They drag him to the bed and force him down. He struggles once more, furious, then stills. Petrov watches his chest, counting.
“He's under. Take him back to bed.” He gives me a leery wink. “Stay by his side, pretty nurse.”
Sokolov grins. “Check his stitches when he wakes up. If they aren't holding, it's on your head.”
They leave. The door locks. Viktor lies still. I reach the bed and take his hand. His fingers twitch, then curl around mine. He's barely conscious but still holding on.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
My chest caves in. “I'm here.”
I watch him finally go quiet. In some unexplainable way, I already miss him the moment his eyes slip shut. The room feels empty without the heat of his stare.
They needed restraints, bodies in the doorway, and a syringe pressed into his neck. I sit there shaking, holding his hand, trying to breathe in a house that suddenly feels smaller.