11. Isabela
ISABELA
We come through the gates as the sky is beginning to glow on the horizon.
The long night is finally over and dawn approaches.
I've been awake so long, my body's running on whatever's left after the fear burned off. Papa is curled in a ball in the back of the SUV and Demin is resting with his eyes shut, though I don’t think he's sleeping.
The bleeding has stopped for the most part, but it's caked on my hands and wrists.
I'm still in shock, too paralyzed by what I witnessed to do anything other than sit here next to Demin trying not to close my eyes.
I want to—God, am I exhausted—but every time I do, I see the bullet hit that man in the head and his blood spray all over the building.
I know Demin warned me about this and I thought I could handle it, but I can't. I feel sick and I want to go home—wherever home is now.
The SUVs pull around the drive, stopping by his front door, and doors start opening. Demin shrugs back to life, sliding out his side, so I follow, but before I can get out of the SUV all the way, Mishka and another guard have Papa in their arms, dragging him toward the house.
"Wait." I tighten my grip on my father as the guards try to take him away. "Where are you—what are you doing?" We just got reunited. They can't separate us now. I won't let them. I don’t have much energy left, but what I do have, I use to try to restrain them.
"Medical wing," one of them says. "He needs looking at."
"Then I'm coming with him."
"Let them go," Demin grumbles, trying to hook his hand around my waist, but he's weakened by the gunshot. It's easy to slip away.
"No. No, he stays with me. I went through all of this to be with him.
You don't get to just—" Bart walks up and grabs me with both arms, hauling me off my feet so I can't follow them as he locks eyes with his boss.
"Let go of me," I hiss, clawing at his wrist and pounding his arm with my fists.
"Demin, do something." But Demin has walked away now, and no one here is going to listen to me.
Bart drags me into the house through the foyer and then sets me down, letting my feet touch the floor. "Are you hurt?" he asks, scanning my face.
"Fuck you," I growl, turning to go find Demin, but he grabs me again.
"Look, lady, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The boss will come see you in a minute… alright?"
Hearing that Demin will come to me soon settles me a little. If anything, he knows my father will never agree to anything without me. I'll get to see Papa soon enough or they won't have their stupid drugs at all. So I sigh and drop my head.
Another guard falls into line behind me and they walk me up through the house, past the rooms I half remember, and it isn't until a door shuts behind me that I realize where I am.
The bed is enormous, dark wood, the sheets pulled tight. There's a window that looks out over the back wall toward the garden, the same view I had from my locked room, just from higher up. And I know I'm in his bedroom. But why not the room he was keeping me in before? Why here now?
My body is so fatigued I can barely stand anymore, but I manage to find the bathroom to scrub my hands. The hot water doesn't burn away the memory of watching that man fall to the ground dead, but it's a good start at slowing the tremor of post-traumatic stress that's developing.
Demin lost a lot of blood and I bet he's with the doctor getting sewn up right now too. As soon as I saw that blood, it cut me deep. I never intended for anyone else to get hurt rescuing my father. It wasn’t like I had a death wish for them.
I just wanted Papa to be safe. I feel partially responsible for this.
So when the door opens and I hear him moving around, I dry my hands and walk into the bedroom. Demin stands with his back to me, removing his bloodied tie and jacket. The slump of his shoulders reveals his own exhaustion, and I feel even worse.
"Why am I in here?" I ask softly.
He glances over his shoulder as if he's surprised I'm here or that I'm awake. I could very well be in my room locked away for the night with no interaction, but he had me brought here. Maybe I'm foolish for thinking it, but I feel like there's a reason I'm here with him instead of alone.
"I asked Mishka and Bart to bring you here." Demin speaks without looking up, carefully unbuttoning the shirt he's wearing.
"Why did they take my father somewhere I can't go?" I step closer into the room, watching his labored movements. I can tell he's putting on a front, trying to pretend he's not in pain, but it's obvious he is.
"Because he's dehydrated and half starved," he says, crossing to a dresser and pulling the ruined shirt loose from his belt. "My doctor is good. He'll get fluids into him, look at his ribs, let him sleep in a clean bed. Your hovering over him while that happens helps no one."
A doctor is a good idea. I never thought of that. My only thought was getting him here, which only goes to show that Demin has more sense about him right now than I do. But I’m still upset. I want to be with him. It's the whole reason I did what I did.
"I didn't do all this to be put in a room." My throat's tight. "I wanted you to get him out so we could be together, and you separated us."
"For a few hours." Demin flicks a glance at me, and I see how annoyed he seems. This man saved my life. I don't want to annoy him. I just want to be with my father.
"Look, with all due respect, I don't think you should decide whether I get to be with him."
"I decide everything that happens in this house." The bite of his tone silences me. He never had to save me. I owe him my life because Solano's men would've definitely killed me. But my heart is screaming to be with Papa.
"He doesn't do well with strangers," I say softly, hugging my arms over my chest. "He doesn't speak the language.
He'll wake up in a room full of men he can't understand and think the Cartel has him again.
" My heart is breaking. I can't imagine how scared he must be or what he's thinking.
I dragged him out of there, and no one has explained a thing.
"He needs to see my face when he opens his eyes. Please. That's all I'm asking."
He slides his shirt off and drops it, then turns to me. "You need to trust my decisions." There's a resignation in his tone, but he says, "Most of them kept you alive tonight. You can be angry about it later, okay? I just want to get clean and sleep."
He peels the undershirt off over his head, and it knocks the wind out of me to see it.
The wound is worse than he's let on. It's not a graze.
It's a deep furrow low on his left side, still weeping, the skin around it already going dark.
There are a few stitches there too, thick, black threads lashing his skin tighter.
He studies me for a second, then walks toward the bathroom without another word.
As he walks past me, I feel sadness welling up.
Knowing I’m responsible for that wound in more ways than one is eating at me.
I can't live with myself knowing I've done that thing to him without apologizing. I just don’t know if he's worthy of saying I'm sorry to.
He isn't exactly doing what I need him to do.
"You should call your doctor," I tell him, turning as he goes. I follow him to the open bathroom door and watch as he goes straight to the shower, cranking the hot water on full blast.
"He's busy with your father." He glances up at me and then away as he shoves his pants down. "It looks worse than it is."
It's humiliating seeing a grown man undress in front of me so casually with zero shame. I feel my cheeks burn and look away but find myself stealing a glance as he checks the temperature of the water and steps in.
This man took a bullet for me and I owe him my life. Hearing him grumble as the water washes over his wound makes me cringe.
"You saved my life," I say, creeping closer into the room.
"I don't—I don't know how to thank you for that.
" Steam starts to cloud the room and cling to the mirror as he steps under the flow farther and growls in pain.
I shudder and bite my lip, feeling the urge to step in and stop that pain. I can't, but I want to.
"Don't," he grumbles. "The raid was a success. I got your father, that's all. And I protect what's useful to me."
He's being modest about his true reasoning. Both of us know there's a connection between us, if not before, definitely now. No man saves a woman who is useless to him unless he feels something, which means Mr. Demin Roshin feels something.
"That's not why you came back."
"Just stop," he cautions, taking soap in his hand to scrub his hair. But every time he turns into the water, he yelps in pain.
"No." I step closer, watching his body move around behind the steamy glass door. "I don't think I'm a tool to you. I think you need me to be one because the alternative scares you."
He ignores me for a second, but I slide the glass door open to watch him, now no longer ashamed. I see he's swelling, and it makes my body warm considerably. My core is now as hot as the sun and aching. This was not what I expected.
"You talk too much," he mutters, rinsing his hair while wincing again.
"You're shaking," I say softly, already peeling off the vest. "Let me help you…"
Demin steps out of the water and leans on the wall with one arm braced over his head, and when he doesn't protest, I decide this is inevitable. We've been tiptoeing around our attraction anyway, and this man clearly needs help.
So I step out of my shoes and I peel off my shirt, then my pants. His eyes rake over my body like he's never seen a woman in person as I step in, closing the door behind me.
"Hold still," I tell him as I reach for the soap. "This could hurt."