21. Damian #3
I could feel the weight of his words, of what he was saying. Of what he’d be willing to do for me, for my long years of loyalty, of friendship, if I said the word. Of the choice he’d make.
It meant more to me than I’d ever be able to express.
“Yes,” I told him, meeting his gaze squarely. “I’m asking you to do this the old way. To finish Giovanni Russo and as many of his men as we can.”
Konstantin let out a heavy sigh, and nodded.
“Alright. I have intelligence that says Giovanni is recuperating at a safe house here.” He tapped a spot on the map in front of him.
“If we move quickly, with a strong force—but one that can do this as quietly as possible—we might have a chance of finishing him off tonight.”
Just thinking about it now, as I stand on the precipice of the stairs, makes my blood run hot, my muscles tight with anger that, right now, has nowhere to go.
The intelligence was wrong. The safe house had been occupied, all right, but not by Giovanni Russo.
Instead, we'd walked into a trap, a handful of his soldiers waiting for us.
The firefight had been brutal and quick, and by the time the smoke had cleared, we'd taken out six of their men and lost two of ours.
And Giovanni Russo is still out there somewhere, probably laughing at how he played us.
I want him fucking dead. Every breath is agony, but if I could be sure of where he was, I’d head right back out into the night this instant just to finish him off.
The bullet that grazed my ribs is a constant, throbbing reminder of how badly the night went.
It's not deep, but it's long, a furrow carved along my side that's still seeping blood through my shirt.
I need to clean it, stitch it up, bandage it properly.
I need to do it before the adrenaline wears off completely and the pain gets worse.
Not to mention all the other cuts and bruises, and abrasions that need to be tended to so that I can still move and function tomorrow.
And the last thing I want is for Sienna to find out how badly this went, or how hurt I am.
I make it halfway down the hall to my room before I hear her voice.
"Damian?"
Fuck.
I stop, forcing myself to look at her, knowing what my reaction will be before I even lay eyes on her.
She’s standing just outside of her room, wearing a pink silk nightgown that brushes the tops of her thighs.
Her strawberry-blonde hair is loose around her shoulders, and even in the dim light of the hallway, I can see the worry in her green eyes.
"You're hurt." It's not a question. She's already walking toward me, and I take a step back instinctively.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding." Her gaze is glued to my side, where I know the blood has seeped through my shirt. She’s still halfway down the hall from me, but I swear I can smell the sweet scent of her shampoo and skin, that scent that’s uniquely her, soft and good and everything in the world that I don’t deserve. “Damian?—”
I suck in a breath, and bite back a curse at the pain that jolts through my ribs. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"A scratch doesn't bleed like that." She stops as I hold up a hand, shaking my head at her.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't try to help you?" Her voice takes on an edge that I recognize, the sound that she gets when she’s frustrated, when she’s tired of me fighting her, when she’s trying to let me in. The problem is, I don’t know how to stop. "Don't care that you're hurt? "
“It’s not that big of a deal, Sienna?—”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I see something shift in her expression. The worry is still there, but there's something else now, something that looks almost like understanding.
"You're trying to push me away again."
I don't answer, because what the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
That she's right? That every instinct I have is screaming at me to put distance between us, to protect her from the darkness that follows me everywhere I go?
That I'm terrified of what will happen if I let myself need her the way I'm starting to?
I’ve come up with so many reasons why this is wrong, why I shouldn’t have her, why I need to let her go, and none of those have changed. All that’s changed is that my desire for her has morphed into a need that feels like it could kill me if I let it.
“Go back to bed, Sienna.” I keep walking, past her, giving her as wide of a berth as the hall will allow as I head toward my room. I hear her footsteps behind me, and I start to close the door in her face as she tries to follow me inside, but she’s too quick.
"Let me help you clean that up." Her face is set in stubborn lines, and I let out a breath, rubbing my hand over my mouth.
"I can handle it myself."
"I'm sure you can. I’m sure you always have, but you don't have to." She looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my chest tight. "Please, Damian. Let me help you."
Something in my chest aches, suddenly, that has nothing to do with my wounds.
I’m sure you always have. She’s right. I’ve always taken care of myself.
I’ve never relied on anyone. I couldn’t, before I came to work for the Abramovs.
There was no one to rely on. And Victor Abramov taught me that reliance was weakness.
That my own strength, my own armor, was all I could ever count on.
Now Sienna wants to strip me down to the barest essence of myself, to be there for me when I need comfort, when I need softness. I never thought I needed it before, but when she offers…
I feel like losing her, refusing her, will leave me hollow in a way that I never knew was possible before .
“Damian.” Her fingers curl around my wrist. “Come on. Is there a first-aid kit in your bathroom? How bad is it?”
“Sienna—”
“Please stop fighting me.” She looks at me, those green eyes soft and wide, and I feel myself crumble like I always do for her.
Like I have, even before I realized it. Hauling her to the church and forcing her into saying those vows was the first example, even though at the time, I thought I was the one in control.
The truth is, she undid me from the moment I saw her, and I did something I’d never have thought to do for anyone else.
We walk into my bathroom, all black and marble, a more opulent space than anything I ever had growing up, but now it’s mine. My room, my place in this mansion, for the years of blood I’ve shed for the Abramovs.
Sienna flicks on the light, gesturing with one hand for me to sit. I don’t, yet—sitting would require movement that I know will hurt, and I’m not looking forward to it. “It’s on my ribs,” I tell her gruffly. “It’s probably going to be easier to clean and stitch if I’m standing. I can do it?—”
She ignores me, rifling through the cabinets under the sink until she finds what she’s looking for—a first-aid kit with antiseptic, tape, gauze, and other things that don’t come in your standard kit, like the needle and waxed thread necessary for stitching a wound.
She sets everything on the counter, then looks back at me, a no-nonsense expression on her face that I suspect she’s given Adam before. I feel a little like I’m in trouble.
“Take off your shirt,” she says firmly, and the words hang in the air between us, thickening the tension already humming there.
I see a slight flush creeping up her neck, see her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and I’d find it appealing how much just the idea of me taking off my shirt gets to her if I wasn’t in so much pain.
If I wasn’t trying so hard to fight how I feel for her.
"Sienna." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "You should go back to your room."
"No." She moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "Take off your shirt, Damian. Let me see how bad it is."
I stare at her for a long moment, this woman who should be terrified of me, who should be running in the opposite direction instead of trying to take care of me. This woman, who's somehow managed to slip past every defense I've built, who makes me want things I thought I'd given up on years ago.
Slowly, I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound. Sienna's sharp intake of breath tells me it looks as bad as it feels.
"Jesus, Damian." Her fingers hover over the wound without quite touching it. "This isn't a scratch."
"I've had worse."
"That's not the point." She reaches for a clean washcloth, running it under warm water. "The point is that you're hurt, and you were going to try to take care of this yourself instead of asking for help."
"I don't ask for help."
"Maybe you should start." She wrings out the washcloth and looks at me. "This is going to hurt."
"I can handle it."
She nods and gently begins cleaning the blood away from the wound.
Her touch is soft, careful, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from making a sound.
Not from the pain—I can handle pain—but from the way her gentle ministrations are making me feel.
Like I'm something worth taking care of.
Like I'm something other than a weapon that the Abramov family molded for their own use. Not Konstantin—he’s never treated me like that, but his father. And all those lessons stuck.
“You didn’t tell me where you were going tonight.” She wrings out the washcloth, pink water swirling down the drain before she douses it again and goes back to cleaning the blood away from the weeping gash.
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you to worry. It was supposed to be a straightforward mission. ”
"But it wasn’t, clearly. You could have been killed tonight," she says quietly, not looking up from her work.
“I wasn’t, though.”
"But you could have been." She looks up, and I can see a mist in her green eyes. "And I would have been here, not knowing where you were, not knowing if you were coming back."
The pain in her voice cuts deeper than any bullet could. "Sienna?—"