10. Mira
MIRA
H is face has gone pale beneath the blood and bruises, and his breathing comes shallowly and carefully. Each step requires effort, his injured arm draped around my shoulders making the journey clumsy and painful.
"Almost there," I murmur, one hand on his back to steady him.
He collapses onto the bed with a grunt of pain, immediately working to peel his bloodied shirt over his head.
I help him ease it off, careful not to jar his injured shoulder.
Without the fabric barrier, the damage becomes clear—angry purple bruises spreading across his ribs, a deep gash on his shoulder still weeping blood.
"Stay there," I tell him, moving toward the small washstand in the corner.
He doesn't argue, which tells me how much pain he's actually in.
I gather what I need—clean cloth, a bowl of water, the bottle of antiseptic from the storage room where Batya keeps it for treating cuts on the horses.
When I return to his side, he's leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw tight.
"This is going to hurt," I warn, dampening a cloth with antiseptic.
"Can't hurt worse than the crowbar."
I press the cloth to the gash on his shoulder. He hisses through his teeth, muscles tensing under my touch, but he doesn't pull away. The antiseptic fizzes against the wound, cleaning away dirt and dried blood.
"You're lucky they didn't crack your ribs," I say, examining the spreading bruises across his chest.
"I'm fine." His voice comes out as a growl more than normal speech, and he shifts uncomfortably on the narrow cot.
"You're not fine." I press my palm gently against his ribs, feeling the heat radiating from the bruised skin. "You can barely breathe without wincing."
"I'm breathing." He demonstrates with an exaggerated inhale that makes him wince despite his bravado.
"Barely." I shake my head, reaching for a clean cloth.
I rinse the cloth and move to clean a smaller cut near his collarbone. His skin is warm under my fingers, muscles solid and scarred from years of violence. This close, I can see the details of his tattoos—Orthodox crosses mixed with tribal patterns, names and dates inked in Cyrillic script.
"Hold still," I murmur, dabbing at a scrape on his jaw. He flinches away from the antiseptic.
"I am holding still." His jaw clenches as I continue cleaning the wound.
"You're flinching." I grab his chin gently to keep him from moving.
"You're poking at open wounds." The complaint lacks real heat, more observation than protest.
"I'm trying to keep them from getting infected." I release his chin and reach for more antiseptic.
"They'll heal." He watches me work, green eyes tracking my movements.
I sit back on my heels, studying his face. "Is this what you always do? Pretend you're invincible?"
"I don't pretend anything." His voice carries that familiar edge of challenge.
"Right." I sit back on my heels, studying his battered face. "You just let three men beat you with crowbars and act like it's nothing."
"Two men." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. "I handled the third one fine."
"Oh, excuse me." I throw the bloodied cloth into the bowl with more force than necessary. "Two men with crowbars. Much better."
"You're mouthy when you're worried." His observation comes with that half-smile that makes my chest tighten.
"I'm not worried." I focus on cleaning another cut, avoiding his knowing look.
"No?" He tilts his head, studying me with those penetrating green eyes.
"I'm annoyed." I dab antiseptic on the wound with perhaps more pressure than necessary. "Someone has to patch you up every time you decide to take on half the Karpin family."
"Just doing my job." He doesn't flinch this time, but his knuckles go white where he grips the edge of the cot.
"Your job is getting yourself killed?" The question comes out sharp, but my body is full of adrenaline after walking in on that post-fight mess. What if he'd been dead and I was next?
"My job is protecting what needs protecting." The words carry weight, and his eyes never leave my face.
I focus on cleaning another cut, trying not to think about what he means. Who he was protecting. Why it mattered enough to take three men alone.
"Next time, don't be such a hero," I say quietly.
"There won't be a next time."
"There's always a next time with you people."
"You people?"
I look up to find his green eyes watching me intently. "You know what I mean."
"Say it."
"Criminals. Killers. Whatever you want to call yourselves."
"And what does that make you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You're here. Taking care of me. What does that make you?"
I don't have an answer, don't want to think about what it means that I'm kneeling beside his bed, tending his wounds, worried about his pain. I should hate him, should want him gone, no matter the cost.
Instead, I reach for the roll of bandages.
"Turn sideways," I instruct.
He shifts on the bed, and I begin wrapping the bandage around his ribs. My fingers brush against his skin with each pass, and I try to ignore the way his muscles tense under my touch. And it doesn't help the tension crackling between us that ripens the air to an almost unbreathable temperature.
"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.
"Someone has to stop you from bleeding all over everything."
"That's not what I mean."
I know what he means. I'm choosing to be here, choosing to help him, choosing to care whether he lives or dies. The smart thing would be to walk away, let him tend his own wounds and face his own consequences.
But I can't. I won't.
"There," I say, tucking the end of the bandage into place. "Try not to get beaten up again before morning."
"I'll do my best."
I start to stand, but he catches my wrist. Not hard, not demanding—just enough pressure to make me pause. His thumb traces across my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is racing.
"Mira."
"What?"
"Thank you."
The simple words shouldn't affect me the way they do, shouldn't make my chest tight and my breathing unsteady. But there's something in his voice—gratitude mixed with something deeper, more dangerous.
I know better than this. I know I should put distance between us before this goes somewhere we can't come back from. But his thumb is still moving against my wrist, and his eyes are dark in the lamplight, and I can't seem to make myself move.
"You scared me," I admit quietly.
"I'm still here."
"This time. What about next time?"
"There won't be?—"
"Don't." I press my free hand against his chest, feeling his heart beat under my palm. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
His hand covers mine, warm and callused and surprisingly gentle. "What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. I don't want you to say anything."
But that's not true, and we both know it. I want him to say he'll be careful, want him to say this matters—that I matter. I want him to give me a reason to believe that caring about him won't destroy everything I've worked to save.
"You should rest," I say instead.
"Probably."
But neither of us moves. His hand is still covering mine, still holding my wrist. The space between us seems to shrink with each breath, each heartbeat. I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, can see the faint scar that runs along his jaw.
"This is insane," I whisper.
"Yeah."
"You could destroy everything I care about."
"I know."
"So why do I fucking want you so?—"
He kisses me before I can finish the question. His mouth is warm and urgent against mine, and I taste copper from his split lip. I try to push him away and remember all the reasons this is wrong, but his hand tangles in my hair, and I melt into him instead.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the tremor in his hands.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit.
"Neither do I."
"This doesn't change anything," I tell him, still breathing hard.
"No, it doesn’t."
But we both know that's a lie. Everything has already changed. The moment I chose to stay and tend his wounds instead of walking away. The moment he took three men alone to protect what's mine. The moment we both stopped pretending this was anything other than what it is.
I lean forward and kiss him again, hungrier this time. He responds carefully, mindful of his injuries, but the heat is still there, still burning between us despite every reason it shouldn't.
When I climb onto the narrow cot beside him, he doesn't stop me, doesn't ask questions or demand explanations. He just watches as I settle against his uninjured side, my hand flat against his chest.
"Your ribs," I murmur.
"I'm fine."
This time, I believe him. Or maybe I just don't care anymore. All the fight has drained out of me, replaced by something fiercer and more frightening. Fear for what could have happened to him. Relief that he's alive and whole and here beneath my hands.
When I kiss him again, it isn't anger or desperation driving me. It's heat born of the terrible knowledge that he could've died today. That tomorrow might bring worse. That whatever time we have is borrowed and dangerous and probably doomed.
Renat’s grip tightens at my waist. He drags me harder against him, his teeth grazing my jaw before his mouth crashes into mine again. There’s nothing soft left between us.
“You make me get in bed to rest,” he mutters darkly, mouth moving to my throat, “but you want me to fuck you…”
I don’t answer. I can’t find a logical response to him. His teeth nip just beneath my ear and my body arches, a traitorous whimper slipping out before I can stop it.
He hears it.
“Take those off.” His voice is gravel, hand sliding down to slap my ass through my jeans. “Now.”
I push to my knees and stand, shoving my jeans down and flinging them off the side of the bed.
Then I shove my panties down my thighs and he watches every movement like it’s payment come due.
When I return, straddling him, his hand curls around my thigh, dragging me back down until I’m pressed against the thick bulge in his jeans.
“Fuck, Mira.” He grits the words, one hand already working the fly, wincing only slightly as he shifts beneath me. “I should make you ride me for climbing into bed with a half-dead man.”
“Then shut up and let me.”
His cock springs free, thick and hard and already leaking. I grip it, guiding him between my legs, rubbing the head through my slick folds until his fingers bite into my hips.
“You’re soaked.” He drags me down slowly, his teeth bared. “Greedy little thing.”
I sink onto him with a gasp, the stretch sharp and filthy and perfect.
“Fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut, jaw locked tight. “You feel that? How tight you are?”
I roll my hips, grinding down until I’m fully seated. His hands are bruised but they still grip me hard, controlling my rhythm.
“Look at you,” he growls, thrusting up once, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. “Taking it like you were made for it.”
I brace my hands on his chest, using him for leverage, but he doesn’t give me a chance to set the pace.
His grip tightens at my hips. “You think you’re in charge just because you’re on top?” He thrusts up again, hard enough to make me cry out. The jolt punches through my body. “You’re not,” he growls. “You take what I give you.”
His hips keep driving in unrelenting thrusts. Pain be damned, he's using every ounce of strength left in him, each thrust brutal, deep, and precise. He knows exactly how to angle it, exactly how to tear every sound from my throat.
“You love this, don’t you?” he snarls against my neck. “Love being fucked by the man who burned your world down.”
My fingernails dig into his chest, and he hisses through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop.
“Say it.” His voice is a command. “Say you love it.”
“I do,” I gasp. “God, I fucking do?—”
“That’s right.” His thumb finds my clit, starts circling. Not gentle. Not patient. Just enough to make me come undone. “You’ll think about this every time you look at that barn. Every time you see my blood on your floor.”
My body tenses, everything coiled and tight and too much.
“Come on me,” he grits out. “Soak my cock, Mira.”
I shatter.
My hips jerk, my legs trembling around him as I fall apart, spasming hard around the thick length still driving into me. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow down, just grunts and fucks harder through it, chasing his own release.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls, voice tight. “You’re fucking perfect?—”
His rhythm breaks. He groans against my throat and thrusts again, hips jerking as he starts to come. I feel his cock twitching inside me, the heat of him spilling deep. He keeps moving, a few hard strokes dragging it out, breaths ragged in my ear.
Then he stills, buried to the base, chest rising quickly under mine. His hands slide up my sides, slowing, then settle at my waist like he’s anchoring himself there.
We don’t speak. My forehead rests against his, both of us too wrung out to move. I can still feel his heartbeat under my palm.
His voice breaks the silence. “That what you needed?”
"Mmm," I moan softly and slide off him, careful not to touch any of his battered ribs.
I lie curled against his uninjured side, my bare skin pressed to his chest. His arm wraps around me, holding me close despite the pain it must cause his bruised ribs.
Neither of us speaks. There's nothing to say that would uncomplicated this.
So I am physically attracted to him. It doesn't mean I'm in love, and it doesn't mean things are changing.
I know that. Renat is here to do a job, and apparently, me too.
The familiar sounds of home surround us, but everything feels different now, changed in ways I can't take back and don't want to. His breathing evens out gradually, and I think he might be falling asleep. But then his hand moves against my hair, stroking gently.
"You should go," he murmurs. "Your father will wonder where you are."
"In a minute," I tell him, but I don't move. I don't want to break this moment, fragile and stolen as it is. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. His skin is warm against mine, scarred and marked by violence but gentle in its touch.
I know this is temporary. I know that we'll have to face what this means and what it costs. I know getting into bed with a man who could burn my world down is the most dangerous gamble I've ever made.
But right now, none of that seems to matter. Right now, he's alive and whole and mine, and that's enough.