Chapter 36
Dominic
Brendon lets out a low sound, a weak little exhale that barely qualifies as a whimper, and I drop to my knees beside the couch, shoving both hands back over the wound at his side.
His skin is clammy under my palms, the blood still warm, but slowing; which isn’t the comfort it should be.
His breaths come in shallow pulls, lips parted, lashes fluttering like he’s half stuck somewhere he can’t claw his way out of.
“I’ve got you,” I say, and this time, it’s not just a promise. “I’ve got you. Don’t you dare leave me now. Not after I did all of this.”
His mouth trembles like he’s trying to smile, even now.
“Stay with me, please,” I mutter, leaning over him, pressing down. “You’re not allowed to tap out on me, Little Sin. You hear me? Not tonight. Not ever.”
He doesn’t answer, but his chest rises, just enough.
That’s all I need. I clamp down on the wound and work through a plan in my head.
My phone is in my back pocket—somehow, miraculously, still there.
I unlock it with bloody fingers, and call the only person who knows how to make this kind of mess disappear without flinching.
“Seth,” I say, when he picks up on the second ring, and starts with some lazy bullshit greeting. “I need a cleanup. My place. Now.”
There is a beat of silence as his brain registers that I never call him in crisis mode unless someone is already dead. “How bad?” he asks, voice dropping.
“The worst kind,” I say. “My mother. Remove any trace she was ever in my house, set up a scene, and sweep for trackers. Car, bike, cottage, even Brendon’s place. I want every eye she had on me gone by sunrise. I’ll pay double.”
Another beat, then a low whistle. “Christ, Dom. You finally did it.”
“Yeah,” I bite out. “And if you don’t get here fast, I’m going to lose the only good thing that came out of any of this. I’m taking him to the hospital. Handle the rest.”
“I’ve got you, mate,” he says, and for once, I let myself trust that. “Go.”
I hang up, shove the phone back in my pocket, and turn all my focus back to Brendon.
He’s slipping; I can feel it. There’s no time to wait for an ambulance out here.
They’d get lost on the back road, they’d waste minutes I don’t have, they’d ask questions I don’t want to answer.
I need him in a trauma bay five minutes ago.
“Sorry, baby,” I mutter, sliding one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees. He lets out another broken sound when I lift him, his head lolling against my chest, and I grit my teeth. “I know. I know. I’ve got you.”
I hate that he’s always lighter than I expected.
He should eat more. I should feed him more.
Stupid thoughts, but they keep my hands from shaking as I carry him out to the Charger.
The night air hits us, and his body shivers against mine.
I press him closer with one arm, while I wrench the passenger door open with the other, then lay him across the seat as gently as I can.
“Stay awake,” I mutter, voice rough, as I sprint around to the driver’s side. “You go to sleep, you’re going to piss me off.”
He doesn’t answer. That terrifies me more than anything, because my boy always brats me.
The drive to the hospital is a blur of red lights I don’t stop for and speed limits I blow past without a second thought.
The Charger roars, engine straining as I push it harder than I usually let myself on these streets.
I take a route that avoids campus cameras, veer down the alley I already know has a blind spot, thanks to a busted security system, and file that detail away.
I will need it in fifteen minutes when I build my lie.
Right now, I’m making the car go faster.
The emergency entrance is a wash of harsh white light as I pull up half on the curb, the Charger’s tires squealing.
Somebody yells about parking, and I ignore them.
I’m out of the car and around to his side in seconds, ripping the door open, swearing under my breath as I try to move him without jarring the wound.
He lets out a small, broken whimper that tears right through me.
“Almost there, baby,” I mutter, scooping him up. “Stay with me. You fucking stay with me.”
The instant the automatic doors hiss open, the smell hits me: disinfectant, stale coffee, metal. The ER is a rush of movement and noise—nurses behind the desk, a crying kid somewhere, the low murmur of TV news in a corner. Then somebody looks up, eyes widen, and the whole room pivots.
There are three things that work in my favor immediately.
One, this is Lakehaven’s main hospital, and every nurse and orderly in this building knows who I am because my face has been on their TVs since freshman year.
Two, I’m covered in blood, and I do not look like I am in the mood to be fucked with.
Three, Brendon is small, and pale, and clearly dying in my arms, and that image triggers the part of every medical professional that moves before forms are filled out.
“Jesus—somebody get a gurney!” a nurse shouts, already moving around the desk. “Volkov? What happened?”
“Robbery,” I say, voice coming out steady even though my chest feels like it’s going to split. “I happened to drive past the alley off Mercer, behind that shitty liquor store. Guy was going through his pockets, but I chased him off and brought him here.”
The lie rolls out smooth and rehearsed, even though I only put it together in the drive over.
I catalogued which alleys don’t have cameras years ago for other reasons; Mercer’s one of them.
Let them go look, they won’t find shit. The only thing that may come back to bite me is leaving campus on my Ducati. Fuck it, I’ll think of a story later.
The nurse gives me a quick look, takes in my face, registers the name, and nods like she believes every word. Why wouldn’t she? Dominic Volkov saving a poor TA from a random act of violence fits the narrative a hell of a lot better than the truth.
“Let’s move,” someone barks. A gurney appears out of nowhere.
Hands reach, professional and quick, and I force myself to let go.
My arms suddenly feel weightless, wrong.
They strap him down, cut the hoodie up the side, and when the fabric peels back and the blood-soaked shirt underneath comes into view, there’s a chorus of low curses and clipped instructions.
“BP’s dropping.”
“Get a line in.”
“Prep trauma one.”
They wheel him away, and part of me goes with him. The part that has been pretending for months now that I’m still just a weapon my mother sharpened, instead of whatever the fuck I’ve become with this boy in my life. I follow until a nurse plants a hand on my chest, and physically stops me.
“You can’t come back here, Mr. Volkov,” she says, firm but not unkind. “We’ll take care of him. Wait in triage. We’ll update you as soon as we stabilize him.”
“He lost a lot of blood,” I say automatically. My brain is already in calculation mode. “Please, if he needs… I’m O-neg, I can—”
“You’re his friend?”
“Yeah,” I say, and the word barely covers it, but I’m not about to explain our dynamic to a woman in scrubs. “Closest thing he has right now. Use me if you need to.”
She nods, already turning away. “We might. Sit tight.”
The empty feeling that opens in my chest is worse than anything I’ve felt standing over a cooling body.
A nurse with kind eyes and a clipboard intercepts me, steering me toward the side without asking. “Let’s get you checked over,” she says. “You’re covered in blood, hon.”
“It’s his,” I say automatically.
She nods, unconvinced. “You sure none of it’s yours?”
“Pretty sure,” I mutter. “I’ve been through worse.”
Her eyes flick over my face, lingering on the way I say that, and then she gestures for me to follow. She deposits me in a plastic chair near the waiting area, hands me a stack of antiseptic wipes, and tells me to clean up while she grabs some forms.
The wipes turn red as I scrub my hand, then pink, then finally mostly white as I scrub my fingers, my wrists, the smears on my neck.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I register that there is more blood on me than there should be from just one wound.
I push that thought away. I will think about my mother later.
I sit in one of the ugly plastic chairs, forearms braced on my knees, hands still tacky with his blood, and I stare at my hands until they blur.
The nurse comes back with a clipboard. “We need some basic info for your friend,” she says. “Full name, date of birth, and address if you know it. Emergency contact.”
“His name’s Brendon Lane,” I say, voice flat. “His birthday’s in June… uh, the 25th… and he lives at the Cedar Heights apartments off campus, third floor, end of the hall.” I rattle it off by heart; I’ve walked those stairs enough times to know.
She types quickly, then frowns at the screen. “Looks like we already have him in the system,” she says. “We treated him a while back for a uh… sprained wrist. Emergency contact is on file.” She scrolls, then stops. Her brows flick up. “Huh.”
“What?” I ask, not ready for more bad news.
“He changed his primary contact a few days ago,” she says, turning the screen slightly toward me. “From his parents to… you.”
DOMINIC VOLKOV stares back at me on the monitor in crisp black font with my cell number next to it.
I forget how to breathe.
He did that without telling me. He went into his medical profile and put my name where his parents used to sit. Somewhere in the last week, he made a decision about who he trusts to answer the phone if he’s bleeding out, and he picked me.
“You’re also listed as secondary next of kin,” the nurse adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Secondary to who?” I ask because I need to know exactly how much of him they still own.