I drag her closer, forcing her to look at me. “Don’t mistake mercy for weakness. I could’ve taken your life instead of your body. You want to talk about right and wrong? This is as close to fair as your world gets.”
Her lip trembles, but she doesn’t look away. “Then that says everything about you and your world.”
I stare at her for a long moment, my blood burning hot under my skin. She doesn’t understand. She never has.
She wasn’t raised in this. She doesn’t know what it costs to be king, or how quickly mercy turns to a knife in your back.
My grip softens, almost against my will, and I release her wrist. “You think I enjoy this?” I grumble. “You think I wanted a woman who flinches every time I come near her or discuss our arrangement?”
“You don’t scare me, Ben.”
“Then give me my heir.”
Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t answer. I need her to ensure my legacy, something I’ve worked hard for.
Finally, I drag in a breath, and gently release her wrist. “You’re done patching me up. Go to bed before I remind you what obedience looks like.”
She doesn’t move. Her eyes flick to the wound one last time, then back to me. “You can threaten me all you want,” she says firmly, “but you can’t make me stop hating you.”
I almost smile.
“Good.” I step closer. “Hate keeps you alive. Love would ruin you.”
Her breath catches, and I don’t miss it. She unwraps the gauze and places a few large bandages on my shoulder before wrapping it up.
When she’s done, she gathers what she brought and stands, hesitating for a moment, but I refuse to take the bait.
Then she leaves, and the sound of steps underneath her weight tells me she’s going to do what I asked of her.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The pain in my shoulder is nothing compared to the one she left in me.
No number of stitches will fix that one.
The adrenaline is fading now, leaving only the burn in my shoulder. The air still smells like her, soap and sugar and something faintly floral. It’s a stupid thing to notice after getting shot, but my brain isn’t concerned with logic right now.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table and hit Artem’s name. He picks up on the first ring.
“Jesus Christ, Ben,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep or whiskey; probably both. “You alive?”
“Barely.” I lean back, wincing at the pain in my shoulder. “Three of Nikolai’s men outside the club.”
“That’s all?”
“Three that I counted.”
“Well, that’s insulting.”
“Nikolai wasn’t always the brightest.”
There’s a pause on the line. “You’re making a mess.”
“I’m cleaning one up,” I counter. “He started it.”
“Doesn’t matter who started it. You’re still bleeding on your own floor. That’s not power; that’s vulnerability.”
I stare at the glass table in front of me and the faint smears of red across it. He’s not wrong.
“He’s testing me,” I say. “Wants to see if I’ll crawl.”
