32. Katarina
KATARINA
T he Ducati’s engine roars beneath me as we race through the night, my arms wrapped tight around Erik’s waist. The weight of his body grounds me even as adrenaline courses through my veins.
Behind us, the McLaren’s headlights cut through the darkness, keeping pace as we navigate winding back roads toward the Ivanov compound.
“Clear behind us,” Nikolai’s voice crackles through Erik’s earpiece, loud enough for me to hear over the wind.
My father’s estate shrinks in the distance, swallowed by trees and shadows. Each mile puts more space between me and a life chained to Anton Petrov, between me and the cage my father built around my life.
The compound’s familiar silhouette emerges through the trees—concrete walls, security towers, the place where I was held captive for weeks. Where Erik first tied me to a bed and made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
Strange how returning here feels like coming home.
Erik downshifts as we approach the main gate. Security personnel wave us through, clearly expecting our arrival. The McLaren follows, tires crunching over gravel as we pull into the courtyard.
I slide off the motorcycle on unsteady legs, my body still buzzing from the escape. Erik’s arm immediately circles my waist, steadying me.
“Inside. Now.” Dmitri’s voice carries urgency as he helps Alexi from the passenger seat.
Blood has soaked through Alexi’s shirt, spreading dark stains across the fabric. His face is pale, but his eyes remain sharp and focused.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Alexi protests as we move toward the main entrance. “Barely a scratch.”
“A scratch that’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” Nikolai states.
Alexi chuckles. “Don’t get me started. You went to the doctor for a papercut if I remember rightly.”
“That was a very deep paper cut,” Nikolai’s tone remains deadpan.
Despite everything—the gunfire, the chase, Alexi’s injury—I find myself almost smiling at their banter. Even wounded, they deflect concern with humor. It’s so different from my father’s coldness or Ivan’s cruelty.
The medical room smells of antiseptic and sterile equipment. Erik guides me to a chair in the corner before turning his attention to Alexi, who’s already peeling off his blood-soaked shirt with one hand.
“Sit,” Erik commands his youngest brother, pointing to the examination table.
“Yes, Doctor Ivanov,” Alexi salutes mockingly with his good arm. “Should I say ‘ah’ too?”
Erik ignores the sarcasm, pulling on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. His movements are clinical—nothing like the passionate man who held me moments ago. This is his military training taking over.
“Local anesthetic?” Erik asks, preparing a syringe.
“Nah, I’m tough. Besides, pain builds character.” Alexi grins, then winces as Erik probes the wound. “Okay, maybe a little numbing wouldn’t hurt.”
“Hold still.” Erik injects the area around the bullet graze. His hands remain steady despite everything we’ve just been through.
Alexi turns to me while they wait for the anesthetic to take effect. “So, how does it feel to be rescued by dashing knights in tactical gear?”
“Less romantic than the stories suggest,” I reply, watching Erik thread a suture needle. “More explosions, more blood.”
“The blood really adds to the ambiance,” Alexi agrees. “Nothing says ‘rescue mission’ like arterial spray.”
“It’s venous bleeding, not arterial,” Erik corrects without looking up.
“Details, details.” Alexi waves his good hand dismissively. “Point is, I’m leaking.”
Erik begins cleaning the wound with antiseptic. Alexi’s jaw clenches, but he keeps talking.
“You know, this reminds me of that time in Prague when—ow, fuck—when Dmitri got stabbed in that knife fight.”
“You’re not supposed to move while I’m suturing,” Erik says calmly, making his first stitch.
“Right, sorry. Anyway, Dmitri was bleeding everywhere, dramatically declaring his love for some brunette?—”
“I was concussed,” Dmitri calls from the doorway where he’s been standing watch.
“Concussed with honesty,” Alexi shoots back. “The head injury just loosened his tongue.”
More stitches. Erik’s concentration never wavers, his fingers working with the same precision he once used to check my pulse to ensure I was safe. Watching him care for his brother with such gentle efficiency makes something warm unfold in my chest.
“Almost done,” Erik murmurs, tying off the final suture.
“I didn’t even know her name,” Dmitri protests from the doorway, his voice carrying that familiar edge of wounded pride. “And I certainly didn’t love her.”
Alexi snorts, then immediately regrets it as the movement pulls at his recently stitched wounds. “Right, that’s why you kept mumbling ‘beautiful angel’ over and over while Erik patched you up.”
“I was delirious from blood loss.”
“You lost maybe a pint,” Erik says dryly, applying antibiotic ointment to the wound. “Hardly enough to cause romantic hallucinations.”
“See?” Alexi grins triumphantly. “Our resident medic confirms you were just being honest for once.”
Dmitri’s jaw tightens. “I may have been... appreciative of her assistance. She did help stop the bleeding.”
“By ripping off her shirt and pressing it to your wound,” Alexi continues, clearly enjoying himself despite his injury. “Very selfless of her. Very memorable, I’m sure.”
“The fabric was absorbent,” Dmitri states flatly.
“I bet it was.” Alexi wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“You’re all set,” Erik announces, securing a bandage over Alexi’s stitches. “Keep it dry for twenty-four hours, then gentle cleaning twice daily.”
“Yes, doctor.” Alexi hops off the examination table, testing the range of motion in his arm. “Good as new.”
“Good as new would imply you weren’t defective to begin with,” Dmitri observes.
“Harsh words from someone who apparently falls in love with nameless women who tend to his wounds,” Alexi fires back.
“I didn’t—” Dmitri starts, then stops himself. His composure cracks just enough for me to see something desperate underneath. “I don’t fall in love.”
The statement hangs in the air like a challenge, but there’s something brittle about the way he says it. Like he’s trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
Erik begins cleaning up the medical supplies, his movements efficient and practiced. “Love makes fools of us all eventually.”
His eyes meet mine across the room, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest. The same one I felt when he kissed me in my childhood bedroom when he promised Anton wouldn’t bother me.