“Please.” The word is barely a whisper. “Please don’t leave me.”
His hand twitches.
I jerk back, staring at his face, and his eyelids flutter—once, twice—and then his eyes are open, grey and unfocused and barely conscious butopen, and his cracked lips move.
“Anya.”
“I’m here.” I grab his hand and squeeze so hard it must hurt, but I don’t care. “I’m here, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay—”
“Told you.” The words are barely audible, his voice wrecked from screaming. “Trust you.”
His hand comes up, trembling violently, and touches my cheek. His thumb brushes tears I didn’t know were still falling.
His eyes roll back.
“ROMAN.”
But he’s gone—not dead, I can see his chest moving, but unconscious. I check his pulse. Weak. Thready. Too fast. But there.
He needs blood. Fluids. Antibiotics. Real medical care.
He has me. A table. Ethanol and gauze.
I do what I can. Elevate his legs. Pack heat sources against his core. Clean the shoulder wound. Check his pupils every thirty seconds.
Luka watches me work.
When I finally sit back, he says quietly, “You saved him.”
“I opened him up on a metal desk with no anesthesia and stitched him closed while he screamed.” I look at my hands. His blood has dried in the creases, over the scalding blisters from the hot water. “That’s not saving. That’s butchery and prayer.”
“He’s breathing.”
“For now.”
I take Roman’s hand and hold it. His fingers are warming, circulation returning, and his grip tightens around mine even in unconsciousness. I think about Mishka in Rotterdam, waiting. I think about the clinic, the antidote, the empire Roman promised to burn.
I think about the fact that yesterday I was poisoning this man, and now I’ve got his blood under my fingernails and histaste on my lips, and I would burn the entire world to keep him breathing.
The bay door grinds open.
I’m on my feet with the Glock in my hand before I register moving. Luka’s weapon is up too, both of us covering the entrance, and I’m still covered in Roman’s blood, my hair stiff with river water, my clothes frozen and gore-soaked.
“It’s us.” Chernov’s voice. “I brought men.”
They file in. Thirty of them, maybe more. Bratva soldiers in tactical gear, and they stop when they see Roman unconscious on the table, when they see the blood everywhere, when they see me—small, blood-soaked, Roman’s Glock pointed at Chernov’s chest.
Someone mutters in Russian. I catch the wordslabiy. Weak.
They’re looking at Roman, pale and still on that table, the way wolves look at wounded prey.
Chernov steps forward. “Is he—”
“Stop.”
The word comes out flat. Something in it makes him freeze.
“He’s stabilizing.” I keep the Glock level. “Core temperature rising. Pulse is stronger than an hour ago. He’ll be conscious within six hours.” I pause. “Able to command within eight.”
