Something breaks in my chest, some wall I’ve been holding up for twenty years, and I’m crying—second time since the massacre, since I learned what my uncle did—and she doesn’t tell me to stop.
“Now.” Her voice steadies, but she’s still touching me with something like tenderness. “Hold still while I remove this knife, and then we’re going to get you dressed for war.”
She grips the handle and pulls, one smooth motion, and I grunt through the fresh wave of agony while blood pours down my arm.
“Lucky.” She’s already packing the wound, suturing. “Missed the major vessels. You’ll have full use of the arm in a few weeks.”
“The right one’s useless.” She works, her hands steady even after everything. “I’m going into battle half-crippled.”
“You’re going into battle with thirty-two men who just watched you snap a traitor’s neck with two damaged hands.” She ties off the final suture and reaches for bandages. “I think you’ll manage.”
The tactical gear is laid out on the desk beside me—Kevlar vest, shoulder holster, combat boots—and I’m staring at it when Anya steps in front of me.
“Arms up.”
I raise them—painful, awkward, my shoulder screaming and my freshly sutured arm protesting—and she lifts the Kevlar vest over my head, settling it onto my shoulders with a care that makes my throat tight.
Her fingers find the side straps and start tightening.
Every pull brings her body closer to mine. Every adjustment presses her against me—her breasts brushing my chest, her hips aligning with mine, her breath warm against my throat. The vest sits snug against my damaged ribs, and she runs her hands over the surface, checking the fit, her palms smoothing across Kevlar that might as well be bare skin for how my body responds.
“Tighter.” My voice comes out rough.
Her pupils dilate. She pulls the straps harder, and the vest compresses around my torso, her face inches from mine.
“Shoulder holster.” She moves behind me, pressing her body flush against my back, and threads the straps over my arms with hands that aren’t quite steady anymore. “Lift.”
I raise my arms again and feel her pressed against my spine from shoulders to hips, her breath hot on my shoulder blades. The holster settles into place, and her hands linger on the buckles, adjusting, tightening, her fingers trailing across my chest.
My cock responds despite the fever, despite the wounds, despite everything.
Her hand brushes across my groin while reaching for the chest buckle. Slow.
“Color?” Her voice comes low against my ear.
“Green.” I turn my head enough to see her face, pupils blown and lips parted. “So fucking green I’m thinking about things we don’t have time for.”
“Tell me anyway.” Her lips find my neck, breathing me in, and her hand presses flat against my cock through the tactical pants.
“I’m thinking about surviving this.” I reach back with my left hand and find her hip, pulling her harder against me. “About the throne. About bending you over it. About making good on every threat I’ve ever whispered in your ear.”
She shudders, full-body, and her hand tightens on me.
“When we survive—” I turn in her arms, facing her, my left hand sliding up to cup her jaw. “I’m giving you everything, Anya. The throne. The knife. Every dark fantasy you’ve been too practical to ask for.”
“Promise?” Her voice comes out breathless.
“Blood oath.” I pull her close enough to feel her heart racing against my chest. “Survive today, and I’ll ruin you in ways you haven’t imagined yet.”
She kisses me—hard, hungry, biting my lip hard—and then pulls back, her eyes bright and dangerous.
“Then let’s go kill your uncle.” She smooths my vest one more time, all business again. “Because I want it all.”
The door bursts open.
Chernov stands in the doorway, face white, breathing hard.
“Pakhan.” His voice cracks. “Scouts just reported. Vadim isn’t fifty kilometers south anymore.”
