“Careful.” Petrov lifts his medical case and sets it down with practiced precision. “If you faint, Viktor will assume I'm not looking after his nurse.”
His palm rises and I flinch. Two fingers hook under my chin and tilt my face toward the light. He studies me like he's found a flaw. “Pretty,” he says. “That clears a few things up.”
My breath stutters. I glance toward the bathroom, to where the water is still running.
“What do you think he’d do,” Petrov murmurs. He doesn't let go of my jaw. His grip weights until it hurts. “If he walked out right now and saw you shaking like this?” His gaze flicks to the door. “He wouldn't stop to ask questions. He’d either tear the stitches open trying to get to you, or someone would get hurt. “Is that what you want?” he asks quietly. “To be the reason he loses control?”
I shiver. “N—no.”
“No.” He crouches, opens his case, and metal glints inside. “Come here. I’ll show you what he needs. Because him walking around alone isn't part of the plan.”
A knot tightens in my chest. “What do you mean? I won't?—”
“Sokolov.” He gestures without looking up.
Sokolov's hand clamps my wrist. He yanks me forward and pulls me flush against his side. I feel the gun at his hip.
“Closer,” Petrov murmurs. He reaches into his case and pulls out a syringe. The liquid inside sloshes with a thick viscosity. He shoves the plastic casing into my hand.
“You're the nurse, Jonah. You know the dosage. You know how to find the vein. You're going to put him under, or Sokolov gets to find out how many of your ribs can break before you pass out. Viktor likes his toys soft, but I don't mind if you're broken.”
I look at the needle, then at the bathroom door. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I can't do it. Won't do it. My grip fails, and the syringe slips from my trembling fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
Petrov snarls, snatching the syringe up. “Useless?—”
“Khvatit.”
Viktor's voice cuts through the room. He's in the bathroom doorway before I can breathe. Naked. Bleeding. The bear on his chest looks black under the lights. “Let him go.”
Sokolov laughs. “Easy, prince. The boy is nothing.”
Viktor hits him. The impact cracks through the room. He pays for it instantly with a hitch in his breath and a dark stain blooming through his bandage, but he doesn't look down. “I said,” he snarls, “let him go. You don't touch what's mine.”
Sokolov crashes into the wall and slides down. Petrov snaps his fingers. “Guards.”
The door bursts open. Viktor turns just as the first man reaches him, slamming an elbow back. Someone yells. Another lunges.
He’s moving with a raw, desperate momentum that ignores the physical reality of his body, betting everything that they’re too afraid of his name to truly break him.
“Get out of my room!” Viktor roars. A guard grabs his side and Viktor's breath hitches. He ignores the man and looks only at me.
I step forward. “Don’t touch him!” I’m throwing myself in front of a monster, choosing his violence over their order.
Someone shoves me back hard, sending me sprawling against the piano.
“Jonah,” Viktor snaps. “Stay where you are.”
I've never seen a fight like this. There's blood everywhere, men swearing, furniture breaking. Viktor swings his fists like pain doesn't exist. He isn't fighting to win. He's fighting to keepthem away from me. But more men pile in. We're not going to win this.
“Hold him,” Petrov says.
Viktor stumbles and my stomach drops.
“Stop, Viktor,” Sokolov pants. “You're not thinking straight.”
Viktor turns on him, feral. “Say that again.”
Three men grab him, then four. “Jonah,” Viktor shouts. “Don't move!”
