Chapter 4 OKSANA
The next morning…
I surface from unconsciousness like a diver breaking through the still waters of a lake at dawn, the pain is a barely distant whisper muted by morphine.
The steady beep of monitors pulsates like a seductive heartbeat.
I remain utterly still, disciplined in the art of silent inventory, my breaths measured, my senses heightened.
A presence looms in the quiet room, and then a voice, low and commanding, cuts through the air. "I know you’re awake."
My eyelids flutter. One opens, flooding with light.
The other stays stubbornly shut. Through the haze, a silhouette sharpens into focus.
A man I didn’t expect. He fills the space without trying.
Over six feet, broad shoulders stretching the lines of a suit that looks expensive even in slight disarray.
Dark hair cropped short, all discipline and intent.
He’s nothing like the boy I tried to save from the mine, they don't even resemble each other. Most of all, because this man doesn’t look like he needs saving; he looks like he decides who gets to breathe.
His eyes are steel-gray, sharp enough to cut, promising both pleasure and punishment without bothering to pretend they’re opposites.
His jaw is carved, his mouth built for orders, not apologies.
Not leading—commanding.
Up close, his aura crackles. Predatory. Electric. Magnetic. The morphine-softened edges of my mind snap sharp, alarm bells ringing, and something else, darker and far less useful, coils low in my gut.
Focus, Oksana.
He steps closer. The air shifts. The wolf doesn’t bare his teeth. He doesn’t have to. This is not the boy in the mine. This is what the boy becomes when he survives. A thought hits me, unbidden and dangerous: If that was the puppy, this is the wolf. "Talk."
I lift my voice, rough as gravel but steady. "Water."
He exhales, a mix of irritation and indulgence, then pours cool water into a paper cup, sliding it toward me with a practiced bend of his wrist. As he brings the straw to my lips, our gazes lock, sending a jolt of electricity through me. My cheeks flush, and I remind myself to breathe.
His pupils widen for a moment; he felt it too. But then his expression hardens into something lethal. "You pretended to be my wife. Why?"
I allow a half-smile, tasting blood and victory. "I thought it'd get me triaged faster."
His hand moves like a viper, straight to my throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make his point. Heat floods my body, drenching me. I like it rough. And I like men who know how to play.
"Try. Again." Each word drops like a bullet casing. Warning me. What he doesn't understand is that he's not warning but challenging me.
I swallow against his grip. "Why? Because your hospitals respond to wife faster than to a woman bleeding on the floor. Because your name opens doors."
His storm-gray eyes flash with murderous intent, sending another flood of pleasure through me. I like to take men to the brink of their self-control, like to see what they're capable of when the civilized skin is pulled back—yes, even mafia men have some kind of civilized skin.
"Don't be cute. It's not fitting. Who gave you that word?" His fingers tighten fractionally.
I flutter my good eye, "You think I'm cute?"
Our eyes lock in a battle of wills. He squeezes harder, making the edges of my vision swim as my oxygen supply is cut off.
He's not giving an inch. It might be because he has no idea who I am, or it might be that even if he did, he wouldn't give a shit.
I don't just respect that in a man; it turns me on.
There aren't many men who can stand up to me, and most of the time, I don't know whether it is because of my name or Grigori's.
"No one," I lie around his merciless fingers, even as my body betrays me, arching slightly into his hold. He notices. Again, his pupils dilate in surprise, and for one moment, we recognize each other. Predator to huntress. The air charges.
He leans closer, his breath hot on my face. His hand remains at my throat, a collar of ownership and a threat. "Last chance."
The morphine can't dull the heat of his skin against mine. I meet his eyes, refusing to look away, wondering how far he will take this. How far I will let him take this.
His grip only loosens when the monitor by my bedside suddenly starts to send out an alarm. My heart rate has gone down, as has my oxygen level. He squeezes one more time, then lets go and steps back, never breaking our eye contact.
A nurse rushes in and goes straight for the monitor. "Oh, good, it's coming back up. It happens sometimes after surgery; the heart rate will go up and down, and so will the oxygen. How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
I don't look at her when I answer. My eyes are locked on Stephano. "Maybe it’s the atmosphere in here."
He replies without blinking, "The atmosphere obeys me." It's a veiled warning; nobody will come to your rescue. He is amusing. I haven't needed anybody to come to my rescue since I turned sixteen—even then, I let Raf believe he saved me, but I hadn't needed him.
Not having a clue what's going on, the nurse adjusts the settings and chirps, "Well… your vitals are climbing again."
I can't help but grin, "They tend to when the operator interference stops."
Stephano growls, "I wouldn't rely on that."
Finally, the nurse seems to realize the tension between him and me. She fiddles with some of my cords, leaning in close to me. She whispers, "Blink if you need help. I'll have security here in a second."
I bite my lip not to laugh, but I know she means well, and in any other situation, she could save a life. Not here, though. Not today.
Or if any life would be saved, it'd be Stephano's; he just doesn't realize it yet.
Reluctantly, I turn my gaze from him to her and smile. "I'm good. Really, thank you though."
"Well, if you're sure." I make an effort to keep my eye open, lest she get the idea that I do need help. I doubt her security guards would survive Stephano.
As soon as she's out of the room, Stephano steps back into my space. "Why are the Venezuelans after you? They tried to kill you at the airport and here."
That is news to me. "They were here?"
He nods.
"You saved me?"
He nods again.
Sarcastically, I throw him a melting glance, "My hero."
"Cut the crap. Why?"
As much fun as it has been antagonizing him, he's right. It is time to cut the crap. Nico is still with the Mexicans. As he said, they won't kill him; they'll patch him up, but it won't be pleasant.
I try to tell myself I'm only feeling like I owe him because he saved my life, that I'm only doing this to figure out what game the Venezuelans are playing with the Italians and us.
That I'm protecting my brother, protecting the Bratva.
But it's not entirely true. I like Nico, and I want to get him out.
"Fine," I exhale loudly, "but not here."
He raises an eyebrow, which only makes him look more arrogant, if possible. "My men are stationed outside; you're safe here." He assures me.
"Oh yeah? You're sure? No bugs?"
He rolls his eyes, "Why would there be bugs? Even the Venezuelans can't work that fast."
I point toward the window and the high-rises across from the hospital, surrounding us. "Ever heard of long-range listening devices?"
He glares at me. "You were shot twice. Beat up. Who are you? CIA?"
That elicits a deep chuckle from me. "Try again."
His fury shows in his eyes when he pulls out his gun and presses the muzzle against my forehead, "No. More. Games."
"You're not going to shoot me," I tell him confidently.
"Because you are a gorgeous supermodel underneath all that bruised, swollen skin, marshmallow?"
I shake my head against the barrel, "Because you want answers."
"I can get them somewhere else. You're not unique."
"Maybe not. Maybe there are more women out there who know how to hide from a… temporale?"
For a second, I think he's going to pull the trigger and wonder if it was worth needling him.
But then he pulls the gun back and throws his fist into the monitor.
The glass fractures, a high-pitched alarm calls the nurse back, and the look Stephano throws me is clear: I've come as close as I can to pushing his breaking point without losing my life.