Chapter 7 - Yakov #2
I watch her swallow hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she evaluates the damage. This is the moment most normal people vomit or bolt. But Raya is a Volkov. She takes a sharp breath, sets her jaw, and reaches into the first aid kit and pulls out a small pair of scissors.
With a careful Snip. Snip. She slices the fabric right down the center, peeling the wet cloth away from my chest. This is the first time she’s seen me shirtless.
I’ve kept myself intentionally covered in bed, so she’d feel safe, hiding the scars my father carved into my skin over a lifetime of corrections.
Under any other circumstances, I’d enjoy the way her eyes soak in my chest. I keep myself in shape, but right now, I need her eyes on the bleeding hole, not my six-pack.
“Yes, anyway,” she mutters, a sudden flush of color rising up her neck, though she tries to mask it by throwing the ruined fabric onto the floorboards.
Her eyes meet mine, and I give her the yeah, I know what you were looking at look.
Let the woman blush. It keeps her mind off the blood. “Tell me what to do.”
“I need you to check for an exit wound at the back of my shoulder,” I tell her, my breathing shallow. “Is there one?”
She slides onto the seat beside me, her knees pressing against my thigh, crowding me into the small cabin. She leans around my torso, her bare hands flattening against the skin of my back to steady herself. The touch of her palms is a shocking contrast—freezing cold against my feverish skin.
“Yes,” she says, her breath ghosting over the nape of my neck, sending a counterproductive shiver down my arms. “It’s—it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It’s small. Clean-ish.”
“Thank fuck. That means it’s through and through. Unfortunately for you, you won’t be getting to wear widow’s black just yet.”
She looks up, her face inches from mine, her dark eyes blazing with that beautiful, fierce fury I’ve become addicted to. “Don’t be a dick.”
“You’d look good in black, though. At least you’ll know it suits you.”
“Don’t be so damn morbid.” But I notice her shoulders drop slightly, the rigid panic leaving her posture, which was the entire point of the joke. “What do I do first?”
“There’s saline in the kit. In the plastic bottle. Flush both sides. It’s going to sting like an absolute bastard, so ignore whatever noises I make.”
She reaches into the black nylon trauma bag, pulling out the bottle and a stack of sterile pads. She doesn’t hesitate. She positions the nozzle over the entry wound on my front shoulder and squeezes.
The cold saline hits the raw, torn muscle, and my whole body instantly convulses.
A deep growl tears out of the back of my throat, my left hand fisting into the leather upholstery so hard the stitching groans.
My teeth grind together until my jaw aches, the searing agony roaring through my nervous system.
“Eyes on me, Yakov,” Raya barks, her voice commanding. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she places her left hand flat against my sternum, holding my writhing body steady against the seat. “Look at me. Don’t pass out on me, you idiot.”
I force my eyes open, panting heavily, and lock my gaze onto hers. Her hand on my bare chest is steadying. I focus on the dark brown of her irises, using her face as a shield against the pain.
“Better,” she murmurs, her fingers shifting slightly against my skin, her thumb inadvertently brushing over the dark ink of the Cyrillic tattoo along my ribs.
She notices it, her eyes dropping to the script for a second before she pulls herself back to the task.
She moves around behind my back, flushing the exit wound with the same ruthless speed.
“Done. Front and back are clear. Now what?”
“Gauze packing,” I choke out, the sweat dripping down my jaw. “The dark green roll. It’s a hemostatic agent—pre-treated to stop the bleeding. You need to pack both wounds gently. Don’t force it; use your finger to fill the space and hold continuous pressure. It’ll help with the clotting.”
She unrolls the green gauze. I watch the top of her head, her hair falling over her cheeks as she bends over my shoulder in absolute concentration.
Then, her finger enters the wound. I can’t help the breathless hiss that escapes my teeth.
The sensation of her working the gauze into my flesh is invasive, and absolutely fucking excruciating, but her hands are steady.
She doesn’t tremble now. She doesn’t flinch at the wet, tearing sounds of the packing.
She treats me with a level of clinical competence that tells me everything I need to know about her upbringing—she’s definitely seen her brothers bleed before.
“You’re doing amazing, Raya,” I whisper, my voice rough, strained to breaking.
“Shut up, Mykros. I’m trying to concentrate.” She works the last of the packing into the back wound, her knuckles brushing against my shoulder blade. “Done. It’s packed. The bleeding is slowing down.”
“Pressure dressing over the top,” I instruct, my head falling back against the window frame as a wave of exhaustion threatens to put me under. “Strap the arm, and then we’re done. Easy, huh?”
She looks around the chaotic clutter of the trauma kit. “Strap it with what?”
“There’s a triangular bandage in the kit,” I tell her, my eyelids beginning to feel like lead. “Bottom left, folded in the blue wrapper.”
She finds it, shakes the blue plastic off, and looks at the fabric for a second.
“I know what to do with this.” She folds it into a tight sling, easing my forearm into the cradle of the fabric and tying it off with a secure knot at the back of my neck.
She adjusts the tension, her fingers lightly brushing my collarbone, smoothing the fabric down. “How’s that?”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Right.” She sits back on her heels outside the door, her breathing finally slowing down. “Good,” she says, a tiny, satisfied smirk cutting across her face.
Our eyes meet, and we both let out a sudden, breathless laugh.
It’s absurd. We’re holed up in a broken-windowed sedan on the side of a highway, shot and bleeding; I’ve just killed two of my father’s men, and we’re laughing.
Every chuckle sends a ripple of agony straight through my shoulder, but with her looking at me like this—the pain feels like nothing more than background noise.
“I didn’t mean—” she starts, her smile softening.
“It was funny,” I interrupt gently. “You did amazing, Raya. Seriously. Thank you.”