Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kira
Artyom doesn’t move for a long moment after Lucas disappears in that SUV, doesn’t even blink, just stands there with his chest heaving and blood dripping slowly from his knuckles like he hasn’t realized yet that the fight is over.
The whole street feels wrong now, heavy and echoing with what just happened, and I’m still shaking so hard I can barely feel my fingers.
I want to speak, to say something, anything, but my throat feels tight and raw, and the words get stuck somewhere behind panic and guilt and the image of my brother being dragged away.
Mikhail steps closer first, scanning the street like he expects someone else to jump out of the shadows, but I’m looking only at Artyom, because something is off, something in the way he’s holding his arm slightly away from his body.
“Artyom,” I whisper, taking a shaky step closer. “You’re bleeding.”
He doesn’t react at first, doesn’t even look at me, but when I move close enough to touch him, I see a deep cut along his forearm, long and already swelling, probably from when one of the men grabbed him while pulling Lucas away. Blood smears down to his wrist, dark and thick.
“You need to get that treated,” I say, my voice catching.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, finally dragging his eyes away from the empty road. “Just a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch,” I say, reaching for his arm before I can stop myself. “You need stitches. Come on.”
He glances down at where my hand wraps around his wrist, and something flickers in his expression, something quieter than anger, that almost looks like he’s grounding himself on the feeling of my touch. He lifts his arm slightly, like he’s debating whether to pull back or hold on.
“We’re close to the hospital,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just let me fix it.”
He hesitates, jaw tight, but then he nods once. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Mikhail follows us with a tense look, staying alert as Artyom leads us back to the car.
I slide into the passenger seat, my hands still shaking, my chest feeling too small for everything happening inside it.
Artyom gets in beside me, jaw clenched, driving fast but controlled, eyes flicking to me every few seconds like he’s checking I’m still there.
Neither of us speaks on the way.
The silence is thick and electric, not angry but charged with something I can’t name, something that sits heavy at the base of my throat.
I don’t know if he’s furious with me or with himself or with Lucas or with everything, but there’s a tension in him that makes the air feel hotter, tighter, like something is going to break.
When we pull up to the hospital, Mikhail steps out first, scanning the area. Artyom opens his door, but before he gets out, he turns to me.
“Stay close,” he says quietly, not an order this time, just something low and heavy and coaxing. “I’m not in the mood to lose you again.”
My chest twists. I nod.
Inside, I lead him through the elevator, down the hallway, into the underground wing the Bratva uses when they don’t want questions.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh against the sterile walls, and the whole place smells of antiseptic and something metallic and cold.
I’ve worked here before, cleaned blood off these same floors, patched up men who walked in with bullet holes, but being here with him feels different.
Everything feels smaller somehow, more intense.
He sits on the exam table, his legs spread a little, one hand braced on the metal edge while the other hangs at his side, dripping blood onto the floor. He looks too calm for someone who almost beat my brother unconscious and is still vibrating with fury beneath the surface.
I grab gloves, gauze, antiseptic. My hands are steadier than I expect, even though my heart hasn’t settled once since Lucas’s fingers were on my arm.
I step closer, standing between Artyom’s legs to get a better angle on the cut, and that alone feels like a mistake, because the second I do, the air shifts around us, heavier, hotter.
His eyes follow my every movement, dark and unreadable.
“This might sting,” I say, because I need to say something before the silence swallows me whole.
He doesn’t answer, just watches me.
I start cleaning the wound, slowly and carefully, and he barely flinches, but his breathing changes, deeper, tighter, like he’s holding something in. I’m focused on his arm, but I can feel him watching my face, tracing the lines of tension that are probably still written all over it.
When I press a little harder to flush out the blood, he suddenly slams his free hand against the metal table, making all the instruments jump and clatter.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut the air in half. “Don’t ever walk into something dangerous without telling me.”
I flinch, because the sound is loud in the confined room, and because I’ve never heard his voice this raw.
“Artyom,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“You could have been taken,” he growls, eyes burning into mine. “You could’ve been hurt again. Worse. And I wasn’t there.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” I say quietly.
“It doesn’t matter.” His jaw tightens. “I should have been there.”
“You didn’t know,” I try, but he shakes his head, breathing hard.
“You lied to me,” he says, quieter now but somehow harsher. “You lied and walked into danger alone.”
His voice breaks a little on the last word, and that’s when I see the fear beneath the anger, the panic he’s trying to hide, the same panic that almost tore through his control when he grabbed Lucas.
My chest softens. “I’m sorry,” I say, and the words feel too small but still true. “I shouldn’t have lied. I was scared and confused and… stupid. But I won’t apologize for caring about my brother.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly, like he’s fighting with himself. When he opens them again, they look different—still intense, still dark, but softer around the edges, like something in him cracked.
“I know you care about him,” he says, voice rough. “But I can’t lose you like that.”
I swallow, my pulse loud in my ears. “You didn’t.”
He holds my stare, and something shifts between us—a slow, heavy pull that starts low in my stomach and spreads outward until the whole room feels smaller, tighter, too charged. His hand lifts, hesitates for one fraction of a second, then settles on my waist, warm and heavy, pulling me closer.
“Come here,” he murmurs, barely audible.
I do. I’m standing between his legs, my hands still hovering uselessly near his bandaged arm, but he doesn’t care about that anymore. His other hand slides up my back, his fingers curling into the fabric of my scrubs, and the breath leaves my lungs in a sharp, helpless rush.
“Artyom,” I whisper, but it comes out too soft, too broken.
He leans forward, his forehead brushing mine, and the heat of him is overwhelming—his breath, his body, his anger, his relief, all of it pressed close enough to burn.
“You drive me insane,” he says, voice low, steady, dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with violence. “Every time you look at me. Every time you breathe near me. Every time you run from me and run toward me at the same time.”
My hands tremble where they rest on his shoulders.
“I’m not running,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “Then stop acting like you are.”
My breath catches, and for a moment I can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything except feel the way he’s holding me, careful but possessive.
His uninjured hand slides from my waist to my hip, gripping just enough to pull me closer, and when my body presses against his, the tension between us snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
He kisses me first—hot and sure, pulling me down into him, his hands moving over my back like he’s trying to relearn every inch of me.
The raw, metallic scent of the hospital room fades beneath the scent of his skin and the faint, coppery tang of drying blood that clings to his good hand.
I kiss him back, my fingers curling in his shirt, my whole body lighting up with something sharp and overwhelming.
The kiss deepens, messier, more desperate, and he pulls me onto his lap, guiding me with slow, deliberate pressure until my legs straddle him. My thighs land on either side of his hips, the fabric of his jeans rough against me, and the hard, stiff weight of him beneath me makes me gasp.
His hand slides under the hem of my top, warm against my skin, trailing heat up my ribs until his thumb brushes the edge of my bra.
The heat of him pressed between my thighs makes my breath stutter.
He murmurs something against my mouth, almost a growl, and the sound sends a shiver straight down my spine.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, his lips brushing my jaw, his breath ragged.
“I think I do,” I whisper, my hips shifting instinctively, because I feel the tension in his body, the way he grips my hips like he’s holding himself back, the way he watches me like he’s memorizing the moment.
He pulls my top up and over my head in one swift motion, discarding it onto the floor with the gentle clatter of the metal table behind us. He follows, shrugging out of his jacket and shirt in a sequence that shows the bruising on his ribs I hadn't seen until now.
He lifts me slightly, guiding my hips against his, and the slow, grinding contact pulls a strained sound from my throat. His eyes darken at the sound, his fingers tightening in my hair as he pulls me back into another kiss, deeper and hungrier than the last.
My hands go to his belt, fumbling with the heavy leather until the buckle gives. He surges against my mouth, tearing his lips away only to whisper, “Don’t stop. I need you to do this to me.”
I push his jeans down with a desperate urgency, following the line of his hips, letting my palm trace the taut, hot skin of his stomach. His hardness presses against the denim of my jeans, and the friction is instantaneous, painful, and absolute.
He stands, lifting me easily, and without breaking eye contact, pulls my jeans and underwear down my legs. He drops onto the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide, and the sudden, overwhelming exposure makes my chest tighten. He looks up at me, his gaze scorching, possessive, and hungry.
“I’m going to make you forget everything but this room,” he promises, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He surges upward, claiming me in one powerful, immediate movement.
The impact steals the air from my lungs, the depth of it settling heavy and full, pushing the pain and the guilt of the last two days out of my mind.
I gasp, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, careful to avoid the bandages, and then he starts to move.
He sets a punishing rhythm, slow enough to draw it out, hard enough to be a demand.
I hold him tight, my heels digging into his back as I meet his force, trying to pull him deeper, closer.
The bed creaks beneath us, the sound loud in the quiet hospital room, and I don’t care.
The tension spills into touch, into breathless whispers, into hands and mouths and heat until there’s no space left between thought and want.
Somewhere between a kiss and a gasp, he breaks away just enough to look at me, his breathing uneven, his voice low and raw.
“I love you,” he says, like the words cost him something, like he’s forcing them past every instinct he’s ever had.
My heart stops.
Then it crashes back into motion, the rhythm of his body inside mine the only thing that makes sense. I lift a hand to his face, my fingers trembling, and meet his dark eyes, almost terrified.
“I love you too,” I whisper. It feels like a freefall. It feels like the easiest truth I’ve ever said.
He pulls me into him again—this time with something new in his touch, something that feels like surrender and promise and possession, all tangled together.
He locks his hands on my hips and angles me sharply, forcing himself deeper inside me, and the intensity hits instantly, stealing the air in my lungs.
He begins to move with a brutal, single-minded focus, the rhythmic collision of our bodies a loud, desperate sound in the quiet room.
“Look at me, Kira,” he commands, his voice a thick, low rasp against my ear, demanding my attention even as my vision starts to tunnel with sensation.
I obey, and the dark, fierce need in his eyes is overwhelming, pulling me closer to the edge.
I match his urgency, arching my back, my fingers splayed across the warm, damp skin of his chest, feeling the ragged beat of his heart against my palm.
He drives into me harder, faster, his breath turning into harsh, quick gasps.
The pleasure coils tight and low, and I can feel the moment I lose control, the pressure building until it snaps.
A cry tears from my throat, raw and unrestrained, immediately swallowed by the sound of his body slamming into mine.
The climax hits like a wave of pure electric heat, stealing my strength, leaving me shaking violently, gripping his shoulders as the intense spasms pull through my core.
He uses my surrender, driving one last, deep stroke into the heart of the shuddering release.
His head tips back, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out in stark relief as a thick, guttural shout of release tears from him.
He collapses, heavy and spent, his body trembling, burying his face in the damp curve of my neck, his breath coming in shuddering, uneven drags.
The world falls away, leaving only the sound of him driving into me, his body shuddering with need, and the fierce, devastating knowledge that we both chose this, messy, broken, and completely unavoidable.