He walks closer, slow and careful, and sits down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight.
My hand moves on its own and reaches out to him. I don’t care about the blood on his clothes or the smell of smoke on his skin. I just need to touch him, to know he’s real.
He catches my hand and squeezes gently.
“You’re hurt.” My eyes zero in on the bloodstain on his shirt.
“It’s not mine,” he says, but I know he’s lying. Maybe most of that blood isn’t his, but I could see his posture as he walked in. His left arm is stiff, limp, like he can’t feel it. Impossible to know if that’s from some injury or if the Bratva doctors shot him full of something to numb the pain.
Still, if that’s the only wound he took home tonight, I’m glad it wasn’t worse. I was ready to welcome him back in a casket.
“I’m fine,” he assures me. “Tonight was just a fucking mess. An associate took a bullet to the shoulder, but he’ll live.”
I nod, but then I can’t help it anymore—I throw myself forward and wrap my arms around him. Wrapped. The sob comes out before I can stop it.
“I thought you were dead,” I whisper against his chest. “I woke up and heard them talking downstairs. Someone said there was a chest wound, and no one would tell me anything. Luka just kept telling me to go back to my room.”
I never thought I’d get where Petyr was coming from when he locked me up, but tonight, I do. Because the urge to keep him safe behind these four walls forever is stronger than anything.
He leans back, one hand on the back of my head, the other against my back. “Hey,” he says quietly, frowning down at me. “I’m fine. I promise.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re sure?”
He nods once. “I’m sure.”
“Your shoulder?”
He glances at it, defeated. “Flesh wound. Nothing serious.”
The fear still clings to me, but his voice starts to pull me out of it. I let my forehead rest against his good shoulder. The tears won’t stop, but I don’t care. I don’t have the strength to keep pretending I’m not scared.
For the first time since I woke up, I can breathe again.
It takes me a while to stop crying. Petyr’s hand stays on my back, but his body feels tense beneath my palms. I can tell he’s holding something in.
Eventually, he lets it out. “Sima, we need to talk.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “About what?”
“Feliks.”
The name makes me freeze. I stare at Petyr, wait for him to say something. Explain how my brother fits into this horrible night. I’m too scared to ask.
“I didn’t know,” he repeats. “We got shot at, Misha and I. Outside of the club. I returned fire. When it was over… That’s when I saw who did it. Who I shot.”
I don’t speak. I just sit there, my mind blank, my heart too tired to react.
Feliks. My brother. Gone, just like Anatoli.
Petyr keeps talking. The words tumble out like he’s trying to fill the silence. It’s as close to panicked as I’ve ever seen him.
“It was self-defense,” he whispers. “He came for me. I swear I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Sima. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Slowly, the pieces start to fit together. What he said earlier, the look in his eyes when he came in. It all makes sense now.
My thoughts drift back to Feliks. To when we were kids.Felya,as we called him when we were small.
Anatoli was always cruel. Cold. He learned it from our father, who thought fear was a form of strength.
