Chapter 2 #2
"The dead men. We just left five bodies in that alley," I utter.
Anton's hands grip the steering wheel tighter as he takes a corner at high speed.
"Already handled." He doesn't look at me as his eyes focus on the road ahead, threading between two cars with barely inches to spare. "I called our police connections before I got out of the car. They'll make sure everything is handled properly."
The city blurs past my window—buildings, traffic lights, people going about their normal lives. All of them, oblivious to the blood we left cooling on concrete.
I want to cry. I should be crying. Two men who protected me almost died in an alley while I ran barefoot through broken glass. And all I feel is this hollow emptiness where tears should be.
Maybe I used them all up last night.
This isn't my first shooting. It's not even my second.
The realization hits me with sick clarity. I'm twenty-one years old, and I can count on both hands the number of times I've run from bullets. I know the sound of gunfire ricocheting off brick walls.
I know how blood looks spreading across white fabric. I know the weight of a man's hand pressing against my back, pushing me toward safety while he bleeds behind me.
Anton has done this before, too. Rescued me, protected me, swept me away from danger. This dance we do, predator and protection, violence and salvation, and that's it.
I was supposed to go shopping today, to treat myself.
Because shopping and going on a date with myself are the only things I have left.
No more late-night adventures. No more sneaking out to clubs or bars or anywhere that might be considered remotely dangerous.
My partner in rebellion has been officially domesticated for six months and is now married.
I hate that I'm here with Anton when I'm feeling so many things. I hate that I need his help. I hate that I'm bleeding in his car.
I also hate that I don't hate it enough to want to be anywhere else. Shit.
A sharp sting pulses through my left foot, forcing me to stop my self-pity. I look down and I see blood beneath my foot on the floor mat.
I bring my ankle closer to me and twist it harder to get a better look at the cut when Anton glances down.
"You're bleeding."
"I'm fine. It's just a cut, probably from broken glass."
"Fee." He tries to lean toward me while keeping one eye on the road, craning his neck to see my foot. "How deep is it?"
The car swerves slightly as his attention splits between my injury and the traffic ahead.
"I might need stitches deep, but it's okay. Do you have a napkin or something? Just so I don't bleed all over your car?"
"The car means nothing, Fee. You do. You're bleeding, and I can't stop to help you properly."
The concern in Anton's voice threatens to disarm the anger simmering in me. But I won't let it. He glances between me and the road, as if I might disappear if he looks away too long.
Anton reaches behind his seat with his right arm, stretching back while keeping his left hand on the wheel. The movement pulls his black suit jacket tight across his chest, fabric straining against those shoulders that should mean nothing to me now.
I hear a zipper, then rustling as he digs through what sounds like a medical kit.
Of course he has a medical kit. Of course Anton Baev comes prepared for every scenario involving his precious cargo. He doesn't leave anything to chance, especially when it comes to protecting valuable assets.
That's all I am. Cargo. An obligation he inherited when Sage married into his family.
"Where are we going?"
"Safehouse about ten minutes from here." He places gauze and tape on the center console. "Secure location where I can assess your injury and figure out what happened."
There's that professional tone—cool, controlled, methodical. He's not worried about me; he's worried about his assignment. Maks' cousin-in-law. The woman Sage asked him to protect.
I have ten minutes to remember that Anton Baev is just doing his job.
I grab a couple of gauze packets from the center console, ripping them open with my teeth. The plastic wrapper crinkles as I tear it away, leaving the packaging scattered beside me.
The coral fabric of my dress spreads across my lap as I cross my left leg over my right, positioning my injured foot where I can reach it properly. The flowing material creates a makeshift barrier between my wound and the leather seats.
The cut runs along the outer edge of my left foot, that curved space between my pinky toe and heel where the skin is thin and vulnerable. It's deeper and longer than I initially thought. Blood drips out from the slice, bright red against the coral fabric of my dress.
I press the gauze firmly against the wound, applying steady pressure to join the separated edges. The bleeding slows almost immediately in response to the direct contact. It stings, but it's manageable.
Anton's eyes flick down to my makeshift first aid setup, his gaze lingering on the growing crimson stain spreading across my dress.
"As soon as we're secure, I'll take care of you."
"You don't have to."
"Yes, I do."
"It's okay. I'll wrap it, and my family's medic can do whatever needs to be done."
"Fee, I have to."
His hands grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white against the black leather. The speedometer climbs higher as he takes another corner, the Camaro's engine growling with increased urgency.
"I can stitch it if necessary." His voice drops to something rougher, more personal than his usual professional tone. "I'll clean it properly so you don't get an infection from whatever the hell cut you."
"Fine."
"Use all of the gauzes if you have to. I have more in the bag."
I open two more and press them against the cut, and pain shoots through my foot. My breath hisses between my teeth before I can stop it.
Anton's head snaps toward me. "How bad?"
"It's nothing. Just stings when I put pressure on it."
"That's not nothing." He takes a corner fast enough that I slide against the door despite my seatbelt. "I should have gotten there before you had to run for your life."
"You saved my life. Don't beat yourself up over a scratch."
"It's not a scratch if it's bleeding through gauze."
I look down. Red is seeping through the white fabric despite the pressure I'm applying. Great.
"Three minutes." Anton's voice is pure determination now. "I'll look at it properly in three minutes."
We're flying through the city now, traffic parting around us like Anton's urgency is a force pushing other cars aside.
I add another piece of gauze on top of the first, pressing harder despite the spike of pain. The bleeding slows but doesn't stop completely.
Anton keeps glancing at my foot like it might start gushing blood if he looks away too long.
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we're not saying. Then reality crashes back—the boutique, the shooting, Emma crouched behind those boxes while bullets flew. God, I was so focused on surviving that I completely forgot about her.
"Emma, the sales associate at the boutique, can you check on her? Make sure she's okay?"
Anton nods immediately. "I'll have someone verify her status as soon as we arrive."
The city continues to blur past my window. Rain starts falling, gentle at first, then harder, drumming against the car's roof. Anton flicks on the wipers, their rhythmic swoosh filling the silence.
The rain grows heavier, turning the windshield into a watercolor painting until the wipers catch up.
"Fee." He glances at me, those gray eyes serious. "Last night, I was coming back to talk to you. To tell you why I reacted the way I did."
My stomach drops. Here it comes. The gentle letdown. The "you're a sweet girl, but" speech that will make everything worse.
"A situation called me away from coming back to you last night." His jaw tightens.
The rain pounds harder against the roof. I can barely see the buildings around us through the storm, just shapes and shadows bleeding into each other.
"I know this isn't the time or place, after everything that's happened." Anton's voice drops lower, rougher. "But I owe you an explanation."
No. I won't do this. Not here, not now, not when I'm already raw from everything else. What I need is space from him.
The Camaro slows as we turn into what looks like an underground parking garage. Concrete walls close around us, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Armed men in dark suits are positioned at strategic points throughout the space.
Anton pulls into a spot near an elevator bank, the engine's growl echoing off concrete walls before he cuts it. The sudden silence feels deafening after the constant noise of the rain, the engine, and my own heartbeat.
"Anton, it's just best to leave it as is. We can have a professional relationship, just like I have with my other guards."
Anton turns to face me fully, his eyes meeting mine. Anton releases the steering wheel and reaches across the space between us, his fingertips brushing my cheek with careful reverence.
"Let me explain properly. Let me tell you why I'm terrified of wanting to be with you as much as I do."
As he says that, all I know is that the man who just killed five people without blinking is looking at me like I'm the most dangerous thing in his world.