Chapter 17 Bella
BELLA
Nikolai slams the car door as we pile inside, all three of us in a rush of breath and panic. Lily is whimpering against my chest, arms clinging so tight my ribs ache. My hands won’t stop shaking.
Aleksander throws himself into the seat next to me.
The car lurches forward, gravel spraying as Nikolai floors it. The estate vanishes behind us.
For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at Aleksander. My mind can’t make sense of what just happened. My heart pounds so hard I feel a little sick.
“That was your mother?” I finally blurt out. My voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from somewhere else. “Why does she want to kill you?”
Aleksander huffs out a laugh that’s more pain than humor. “It’s complicated.”
I look down then, really look, and my stomach drops.
His shoulder is soaked. Blood darkens his shirt, slick and shiny, spreading every time the car hits a bump.
“Oh my god,” I gasp. “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”
He opens his eyes. “I’ve had worse.”
“You’ve been shot,” I say, my voice climbing. “That’s not a paper cut.”
I twist toward the front. “Nikolai, you need to take him to a hospital. Right now.”
The car stays on course.
Nikolai glances at Aleksander in the mirror. The two of them share a look, the kind men share when they’ve already agreed on something I’ll never understand. Aleksander just shakes his head slightly, eyes still burning.
I sit back, clutching Lily, feeling ridiculous and furious and terrified all at once. “Of course. Why would you go to a hospital?” I mutter. “You’re a mob boss. You probably have a…a bullet-removal guy on speed dial or something.”
Aleksander lets out a ragged laugh, and even Nikolai cracks the tiniest grin as he careens through a red light.
It’s almost funny, except it isn’t. I look down at Lily—safe, alive, finally breathing quietly—and I hold her tighter, not sure if I want to cry, laugh, or scream.
Only in Aleksander’s world, I think, does surviving your own mother count as a normal night out.
We speed through the city, night flashing past the windows.
I’m clutching Lily so hard my arms ache, my mind still stuck back in that garden—Irina’s gun, Aleksander’s blood, the chaos and shouting.
Every so often, I glance at Aleksander in the seat beside me, just to be sure he’s still breathing.
He leans against the window, his shirt soaked through, eyes half-lidded but stubbornly alert.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He meets my gaze for a split second, pain flickering behind his eyes, then shrugs. “Home.”
Somehow, that makes my shoulders loosen. Whatever else has happened, I know the city out this window better than anything on that estate. We’re not safe, but at least we’re somewhere familiar.
Nikolai pulls into an underground garage and the car rolls to a stop. I help Lily out, then turn to Aleksander, who’s already trying to push himself upright, ignoring how badly his arm is trembling.
“Stop,” I say. “You’re not bulletproof.”
He smirks, but it’s thin and tired. I throw his good arm over my shoulders and help him up, staggering under his weight but refusing to let go.
We get him into the elevator and up to his apartment—dark glass, slick floors, a view that would impress me if I weren’t so exhausted. There’s already a man waiting inside: the doctor, all business, his bag open on the table.
Aleksander sits without protest. The doctor works quickly, snipping away his jacket and shirt, cleaning the wound, muttering things I don’t want to understand. Blood pools, white bandages soak red. Aleksander just stares at the skyline, jaw clenched.
I hover, Lily pressed to my hip, heart thundering for reasons I can’t name. I should be angry—furious, actually. This man almost got us killed, twice, in less than twenty-four hours. He dragged me into a world I don’t understand, a war that isn’t mine.
But I can’t look away. I can’t stop the surge of anxiety tightening my chest every time Aleksander winces, every time the doctor shakes his head or presses another bandage into place.
I set Lily down on the couch, her eyes already closing, thumb back in her mouth. She’s too tired to protest. I envy her for that.
I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t even know why I’m still here. All I know is that my heart hasn’t slowed down since the moment Irina pulled that trigger—and I’m not sure if it’s fear, relief, or something far more dangerous.
I stand a few feet away, arms crossed tight over my chest as the doctor works on Aleksander.
He doesn’t make small talk. He moves quickly and efficiently, cleaning the bullet wound, checking for an exit, injecting something that makes Aleksander wince.
The blood on Aleksander’s skin is startling against the white bandages, and the metallic smell seems to fill the whole apartment.
“How bad is it?” I finally ask, my voice small. “Is he…is he going to be okay?”
The doctor glances at me, expression unreadable. “He’s lost blood, but the bullet went clean through. He’ll heal, if he doesn’t do anything reckless.”
I shoot Aleksander a look. “So, impossible.”
“Keep the wound clean. No lifting for a while. No stress,” the doctor says.
Aleksander snorts quietly, and even the doctor glances up with the ghost of a smile. “You’ll need antibiotics and rest. If you notice fever or new pain, call me. And stay out of trouble, if that’s possible.”
“Not likely,” Aleksander mutters, grimacing as the doctor tightens the bandage.
The doctor barely cracks a smile, finishing his work with quick efficiency. He checks the bandages one more time, gives a few firm instructions to Nikolai, and gathers up his kit. I hear the front door open and close quietly as he slips out, but I don’t take my eyes off Aleksander.
When it’s finally just us, I let out a breath I’ve been holding for hours. I kneel in front of him, studying his face, searching for signs of pain.
“Are you dizzy? Do you feel cold?” I ask, my voice gentle but urgent. “Do you think you need to go to the hospital after all?”
He shakes his head, giving me a look both stubborn and soft. “I’ll live.”
“That’s not an answer,” I whisper. “I can’t do this if you—if you die on me.”
He lets out a shaky laugh and squeezes my hand, eyes tired but bright. “I’m not planning on it.”
For the first time all night, I start to believe him. I rest my head against his knee, letting myself breathe, just for a moment, while he threads his fingers carefully through my hair.
I help him up slowly, keeping my hand on his good side so I don’t jostle the bandage. He tries to act like he’s fine, like this is nothing, but his face is paler than before and his movements are careful in a way that gives him away.
“Bedroom,” I say, more statement than question.
He nods once.
The apartment feels too big in the quiet, too expensive for the kind of night we just had. Nikolai stays in the living room, a solid shadow near the couch where Lily is sleeping. He doesn’t speak, but I feel his attention on us, making sure Aleksander doesn’t collapse.
I guide Aleksander down the hall. He keeps his jaw set, breathing through his nose like he can control pain by refusing to acknowledge it. At the bedroom door he pauses, blinking like the light is too bright.
“Sit,” I tell him.
He gives me a look that says he’s not used to being told anything.
Then he sits anyway.
I pull the covers back and help him lie down, careful with his shoulder, careful with the bandage. He exhales the moment his back hits the mattress, as if his body has been holding itself together out of stubbornness alone.
“There,” I murmur, smoothing the sheet near his waist.
He turns his head slightly to look at me. “You’re still here.”
“I don’t know why,” I admit, and the honesty surprises me as it leaves my mouth. “You almost got us killed twice in one day.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And yet you’re tucking me in.”
“I am not tucking you in,” I say, defensive, even though I basically am.
He lets out a soft breath that could be a laugh if it didn’t hurt. “Bella.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight in my lap so I don’t start shaking again. “How bad is it,” I ask. “Really.”
He looks at the ceiling for a second. “It hurts.”
“Helpful,” I mutter.
His gaze returns to me. “It went through. I’ve had worse.”
That should not be a normal sentence. It makes my stomach turn.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I say quietly. “Not if Lily is around. Not if you’re dragging us into it.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then, softer, “I didn’t plan for any of this.”
“Neither did I,” I say, and my throat tightens. “And now a woman I barely know wants me locked in a mansion because she hates you.”
His eyes harden at that, a flash of something dangerous, then it fades as quickly as it came. He’s tired. He’s bleeding. He’s still trying to be the biggest thing in every room even when he’s lying down.
“You should sleep,” I tell him, because if he keeps talking I’m going to say something that will crack me open.
He watches me for a long moment, like he wants to memorize my face all over again. Then his eyelids start to droop, the fight slowly leaving him.
“Stay,” he says, the word rough.
I swallow. “I’m here.”
His hand shifts on the sheet, searching blindly until I place my fingers in his. His grip closes around me, not tight, just certain.
A few minutes pass. His breathing evens out. The tension in his jaw eases. The hand holding mine loosens as sleep finally drags him under.
I sit there longer than I intend to, listening to the steady rhythm of him, watching the rise and fall of his chest because it’s proof he is still alive.
Eventually, I stand carefully and slip out of the room, closing the door almost all the way. I need a bathroom. I need cold water on my face. I need something normal.
The hallway is dim. The doors look the same. I pick one, push it open, and step inside.
It’s not a bathroom.
It’s a studio.