Chapter 17
ALINA
The estate feels different when we arrive. Colder somehow, despite the warm lights spilling from every window. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who's changed, who's been fundamentally altered by what happened in that cabin.
Dimitri carries me inside despite my protests that I can walk. His arms are solid around me, unyielding, and I don't have the energy to fight him. I let my head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the scents of gunpowder and cologne that cling to him.
Men in dark suits fill the foyer, their faces grim as they watch us pass. I recognize some of them from before, soldiers who were at the church, who've been guarding this estate. They nod respectfully to Dimitri, but their eyes linger on me with something that might be concern or curiosity.
"The doctor's waiting in the east wing," someone says.
Dimitri doesn't respond, just carries me up the grand staircase. My body feels heavy, disconnected, like I'm watching all of this happen to someone else. The adrenaline that kept me alert in the cabin has drained away, leaving only exhaustion and a bone-deep numbness.
He sets me down gently on a leather examination table in what looks like a private medical suite.
The room is sterile and white, filled with equipment that wouldn't look out of place in a hospital.
Of course Dimitri has his own medical facility.
Men in his world can't exactly show up at emergency rooms with gunshot wounds.
The doctor is an older man with kind eyes and steady hands. He speaks to me in accented English, his voice soothing as he checks my vitals, examines the cuts on my wrists where the zip ties bit into flesh, and shines a light in my eyes to check for concussion.
"You're very lucky," he says, applying antiseptic to my wrists. The sting barely registers. "No serious injuries. Some bruising, minor lacerations. The head wound from the van, where you were tossed inside, will heal on its own."
Lucky. The word feels absurd. I was drugged by my own father, then he arranged for me to be kidnapped and handed over to men who planned to kill me. I watched Dimitri shoot a man in the head from five feet away, the man’s blood splattering all over me.
But I'm alive. So maybe that counts as lucky.
Dimitri stands against the wall, his arms crossed, watching every move the doctor makes. His face is hard, expressionless, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when the doctor touches the bruise on my cheek where the scarred man hit me.
"She needs rest," the doctor says, packing up his supplies. "And fluids. The chloroform can cause dehydration. I'll leave some pain medication, but she should avoid anything too strong for the next twenty-four hours."
"Thank you, Doctor," Dimitri says, his voice flat.
The doctor nods and leaves, closing the door softly behind him. The silence that follows is thick and heavy.
I look down at my hands, at the white bandages wrapped around my wrists. They look like bracelets, delicate and decorative, hiding the raw wounds beneath.
My father’s betrayal should hurt more, should make me cry or scream or break down. But I just feel empty, hollowed out, like someone scooped out everything inside me and left only a shell.
"Alina." Dimitri's voice pulls me from my thoughts. He's moved closer, standing in front of me now. "Look at me."
I force my eyes up to meet his, those green eyes that have haunted me since the church, that have seen me at my weakest and my strongest. Right now, they're filled with something I can't quite name. Concern, maybe. Or guilt.
"I need to take care of some things," he says. "But I want you to shower, get clean. There are clothes in the bedroom next door. Take your time."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He reaches out and cups my face, his thumb brushing across my uninjured cheek. The gesture is surprisingly gentle for a man who just killed half a dozen people to get to me. "You're safe now. No one will hurt you again."
It's a promise and a threat all at once.
He leaves, and I'm alone with the antiseptic smell and the fluorescent lights. I slide off the examination table, my legs shaky but functional, and make my way to the bedroom he mentioned.
It's not the room I stayed in before. This one is smaller, more intimate, with a king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. The attached bathroom is all marble and chrome, with a shower that could fit four people.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. My red hair is matted with blood and dirt. My face is pale except for the angry bruise blooming across my left cheek. My clothes are torn and stained, ruined beyond repair.
But it's my eyes that shock me most. They look dead. Hollow. Like something vital has been extinguished.
I turn away from my reflection and start the shower, making the water as hot as I can stand. Steam fills the bathroom as I strip off my ruined clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I step under the spray and let the heat wash over me.
The water runs red at first, swirling down the drain in pink rivulets. Pyotr's blood. The man Dimitri killed to save me. I scrub at my skin with a washcloth, trying to remove every trace of the cabin, of the kidnapping, of my father's betrayal.
But no amount of soap can wash away what happened. No amount of hot water can make me feel clean.
I scrub harder, my movements becoming frantic. My skin turns red under the rough cloth, but I can't stop. I need to get it off, need to remove every molecule of that place, those men, that nightmare.
"Alina."
I gasp and spin around. Dimitri stands in the bathroom doorway, still fully clothed, his face etched with concern. I didn't even hear him come in.
"You're hurting yourself," he says quietly, nodding toward my arms where I've scrubbed the skin raw.
I look down and see he's right. My arms are bright red, almost bleeding in places. I drop the washcloth and watch it fall to the shower floor.
"I can't get clean," I whisper. "I can't…"
He moves then, stepping into the shower fully clothed, water soaking through his expensive shirt and pants. He takes the washcloth from where it fell and gently, so gently, begins washing my arms with careful strokes.
"You're clean," he murmurs. "You're safe. It's over."
But it's not over. It won't be over until my father pays for what he did. Until the Kozlov family is destroyed. Until every person who had a hand in this is dead or broken. At least, that’s what Dimitri said.
Dimitri seems to read my thoughts. "Alexei is recovering. The bullet went through his shoulder, missed anything vital. He'll be back on his feet in a few days."
Relief floods through me. I'd been so focused on my own survival that I hadn't let myself think about what happened to Alexei. "And the others? The Kozlov soldiers?"
"The ones who survived are being questioned." His voice is flat, emotionless. I don't want to know what that questioning entails. "We'll find out who gave the orders, who knew about the cabin, who else is involved."
"My father." The words taste like ash in my mouth.
Dimitri's hands still on my arms. "We'll deal with him."
I know what that means. What it has to mean. My father tried to have me killed. In Dimitri's world, in the Bratva, there's only one response to that kind of betrayal.
Death.
The thought should horrify me, should make me beg Dimitri to show mercy, to find another way.
But I can't. Because when I close my eyes, I see my father's face in his study.
The cold calculation when he realized I'd found the documents.
The way he pressed the chloroform-soaked cloth over my mouth and nose, his voice almost apologetic as he said I'd left him no choice.
He made his choice. Now he'll live with the consequences.
Or die with them.
Dimitri finishes washing my arms and moves to my hair, his fingers gentle as he works shampoo through the tangled strands.
The intimacy of the moment is strange, surreal.
This man who kills without hesitation, who threatened to destroy an entire family to save me, is now carefully washing my hair like I'm something precious.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the spray of water.
"Why what?"
"Why did you come for me? You could have let them keep me, used it as an excuse to go to war with the Kozlovs. You could have cut your losses and found another way to secure your position."
His hands still in my hair. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then he turns me around to face him, water streaming between us, his green eyes intense.
"Because you're mine," he says simply. "And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should bother me, should make me angry or afraid. But instead, it makes me feel something other than numb for the first time since the cabin. Something warm and fierce and complicated.
He helps me rinse my hair, then turns off the water. He wraps me in a towel, his movements efficient but gentle, then leaves me to dry off and dress while he changes out of his soaked clothes.
I find a simple black dress in the closet, soft and comfortable. No underwear that fits, so I go without. My hair is still damp when I emerge from the bathroom, but at least I'm clean. At least the blood is gone.
Dimitri is waiting in the bedroom, changed into dry jeans and a black shirt. His hair is damp too. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, but his gaze is sharp as it sweeps over me.
"Better?" he asks.
I nod, though I'm not sure it's true. I'm cleaner, but I don't feel better. I don't know if I'll ever feel better.
He crosses to me and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over the bandage on my wrist. "There's something we need to discuss."
The seriousness in his tone makes my stomach clench. "What?"
He leads me to sit on the edge of the bed, then kneels in front of me so we're at eye level. The position is oddly vulnerable for a man like him, and it makes my breath catch.
"Your father's actions have put us both in an impossible position," he says. "The other families are watching, waiting to see what happens next. Some of them believe his story that I kidnapped you. Others are waiting to see if he was involved in the church attack. The situation is volatile."
I nod slowly, not sure where he's going with this.
"We need to act fast. Before Viktor can make another move, before the other families can interfere, before this situation spirals any further out of control." He takes both my hands in his, his grip warm and solid. "We need to get married. Tonight."