Chapter Thirteen - Annie
The estate doors slam behind us, heavy bolts locking in place, but the echoes of gunfire cling to me like smoke. My ears still ring, my chest still tight, like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.
Dimitri strides inside as if nothing happened, his coat torn at the sleeve, blood seeping dark across his arm. His men scatter on command, voices low, crisp Russian threading through the marble hall. They’re efficient—some to the gates, some upstairs, two already murmuring into radios.
I’m the only one who looks like she doesn’t belong here. My hands still shake. My throat tastes of ash.
Dimitri tries to walk straight past me, his jaw set, shoulders squared like he’s already forgotten the bullets that sliced him open.
“Stop.” The word rips out before I can second-guess it. I plant myself in front of him, arms crossed, pulse racing. “You’re bleeding everywhere. Sit down before you collapse.”
He halts, eyes narrowing. The smirk that ghosts his mouth is sharp, almost cruel. “I’ve survived worse. You think a scratch will stop me?”
“Worse doesn’t make this less dangerous,” I snap. My knees feel weak, but I stand taller. “Sit.”
For a moment, I think he’ll shove past me. Then, to my shock, he lets me steer him toward the nearest chair. I push at his good shoulder with more force than I mean to, and he sits—not because I’ve overpowered him, but because he’s curious. His eyes track every twitch of mine, steady, unreadable.
“Finally,” I mutter, turning to the cabinet by the wall. My fingers fumble over drawers until I find a battered first-aid box. I pull it free, shaking my head. “You’d think a place like this would keep it easier to find.”
The absurdity of the task—rummaging through supplies after crouching under gunfire—nearly makes me laugh. Instead, I swallow it down, the sound catching in my throat.
When I turn back, kit in hand, Dimitri is watching me like he’s dissecting me. His expression doesn’t shift, but I catch it, the faintest twitch of his mouth, a smirk not quite hidden.
I drop to my knees beside him, the box opening with a metallic snap. The position feels wrong: me on the floor, him looming above. The act of tending him twists it back—I’m the one with the tools, the one pressing close. He could push me away in an instant. He doesn’t.
The air between us hums with something I don’t want to name, my hands already trembling as I reach for his torn sleeve.
The scissors rattle in my hand as I tug them from the kit. My fingers are clumsier than usual, but I steady them enough to slip the blades under the torn fabric of his sleeve and the strips of my coat I used earlier.
Dimitri doesn’t move. He just watches, eyes hooded, as I cut upward through the cloth. The sound is rough, too loud in the quiet hall, and when the fabric parts, I suck in a sharp breath.
The graze is deeper than I thought. The bullet carved a line along his bicep, raw and angry, blood still welling up and sliding down the curve of muscle There’s a second, smaller wound above the first where the original bullet must have scraped.
“You’re not invincible,” I mutter before I can stop myself, my voice tight. “No matter how much you act like it.”
His lips twitch, the faintest smirk breaking through the stillness. “Would you prefer I cry about it?”
I glare at him, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. “Don’t tempt me.”
I grab the antiseptic, my hands shaking as I flip the cap and soak a pad. It’s not fear making me tremble—it’s how close I am, how every inch between us is filled with his presence. I can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unblinking, fixed on my face as if I’m the one under scrutiny.
I press the pad to his wound. He tenses instantly, muscles coiling hard, but he doesn’t flinch. Not a sound escapes him. His jaw tightens, the corded line of it sharp in the firelight. His eyes narrow, a flash of something dangerous beneath the calm, but he endures it in silence.
I work quickly, trying not to notice the warmth of his skin under my fingers, the way the blood smears across my hand as I clean. Every second feels stretched thin, the air between us thick enough to choke on.
“You shielded me,” I say, my voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “You could’ve taken a bullet to the chest.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I didn’t. We’re both fine.”
“Yeah, well. We might not have been.” The words come sharper than I mean, my frustration spilling out.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, his calm against my ragged pulse. The silence between us swells, heavy and unspoken, filled with everything I can’t ask and everything he won’t say.
I finish cleaning, my hand still trembling slightly, but I don’t look away from him. Not until the silence threatens to swallow me whole.
The gauze wraps clumsily around his arm, my fingers fumbling as I pull it tight and fix it in place. The tape doesn’t sit as neatly as I’d like, but it holds.
Blood stains the white almost immediately, a dark bloom spreading outward, but at least it’s controlled now. I sit back on my heels, a shaky breath escaping before I can stop it.
It’s done. I’ve done what I can. My hands still tremble, betraying me even as I force them steady.
I reach for the kit, eager to pack it away, to create some distance before the words crowding my throat spill free. If I stay too close, I’ll say something reckless—something I can’t take back. The scrape of plastic and metal against the floor feels loud in the quiet room.
Before I can stand, his hand closes around my wrist.
The grip is firm but not cruel, steady enough to stop me cold. I freeze, eyes snapping to his face. He doesn’t thank me. Dimitri Sharov doesn’t offer something as simple as gratitude. He just looks at me—long, unblinking, heavy. The weight of his gaze makes my pulse stumble, my throat go dry.
For a moment, I think about pulling free. My body even twitches toward it. But something in his eyes stops me. There’s no anger there, no cruelty, just a depth I can’t read. It roots me in place.
“You think you’ve won something tonight?” His voice is low, almost soft, but the words cut sharper than gunfire.
“I wasn’t trying to win,” I whisper back.
His thumb shifts just slightly against my skin, a gesture more deliberate than accidental. “Sure.”
The words are clipped, harsh, but his hand doesn’t let go. For a long moment, the only sound is the fire crackling in the hearth, the pop of burning wood echoing in the stillness.
The air feels too thick, too charged. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, loud enough I’m sure he must hear it. My wrist tingles where his fingers press, warmth sparking beneath my skin.
I should pull away. I should tell him to let me go. Instead, I stay, trapped not by his grip but by the intensity of his stare, and I realize with a shiver that I’m not sure I want him to release me.
His grip lingers longer than it should, heat searing into my skin, before he finally releases me.
The absence of his touch aches more than I expect, like the blood has rushed out too quickly, leaving me hollow.
I pull back fast, rising to my feet. My hand curls against my chest as though I can hold on to what just happened, or maybe hide it.
“I… I need air,” I mutter, the words clumsy, tripping out before I can think.
I don’t wait for a response. If I stay another second, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
My steps carry me too quickly across the room, heels clicking sharp against the marble, a sound that betrays nerves instead of strength.
I don’t look back.
When the door shuts, the silence expands, heavy and final.
I know his thoughts aren’t on pain—they’re on me. On how I pressed forward when I should have retreated, how I insisted on tending him even when he made it clear he didn’t need me. It wasn’t mercy. It was defiance dressed as care, and it tells him more than words could.
I don’t just fear him. I challenge him. Maybe that makes me dangerous. Compelling. Worth watching.
Upstairs, I close myself in my room, lock the door, and collapse onto the bed.
My chest is still tight, breath uneven. I press my wrist against my lips, remembering the feel of his fingers there, the weight of his gaze holding me still.
I tell myself I don’t care—that it meant nothing, that I only wanted to stop him from bleeding out.
I know better.
The night drags on, a storm outside gnawing at the windows. Neither of us sleeps.
I’m haunted by the silence that said more than words ever could.
The hours crawl. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the blankets tangled around my legs, heart thudding as if the gunfire never stopped.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hand circling my wrist again—solid, unyielding, more intimate than it had any right to be. The memory burns hotter than the echo of bullets.
I turn onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow. “It didn’t mean anything,” I whisper into the dark, but the words fall flat. My pulse knows better.
Somewhere across the estate, he’s awake too. I picture him in his study, jacket discarded, the wound dark against fresh bandages. He’ll brush off the pain like it’s nothing, but I know he’s replaying the moment the same way I am—the way I refused to move, the way he didn’t let go until he chose to.
The house is silent, but it feels alive, thrumming with tension neither of us can escape. I clutch the blanket tighter and squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that when morning comes, everything will look the same, but nothing will be.