I can’t even feel it. Adrenaline. The pain will come later. I use my right hand to smear away some of the blood. “Flesh wound,” I answer. “Not bad.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Katarina,” he grits out. Is he angry I’m here? That I ruined his chance? “You were shot. Not bad?”
“Oh,” I push up, the pain from using my arm radiating through my body. “I’ve had way worse.”
He turns toward me and that’s when I see it. He’s hit too. “Win!”
“I’m fine,” he waves his hand. “It’s nothing.
Several men rush into the room, dressed in white. My brow furrows as I scramble to get up, but Win’s hand shoots out. “Hush, kitten. Those are medics. Mine.”
Medics? His?
Another man enters, crossing directly to Win. Win flicks the safety on his gun, and hands it to the man, like this is an everyday occurrence. “Call the police, Ted.”
“On their way already,” Ted answers. “I am so sorry, Your Grace, that as you were shopping for wedding venues with your fiancée, that you were both shot.”
“And our wedding planner…” Win gestures down at the still body of Ken.
The other man frowns at Ken. “Killed by a Bratva gangster.”
“Ballistically speaking, that’s going to be difficult for the police to believe,” Win replies even as the other man diligently wipes the gun down with a cloth and then holds it in his hand, placing his own fingerprints on the weapon.
“Leave that to me, Your Grace,” he answers. “I’ll take care of everything.”
I’m silent, because I don’t need to say a word. Win has made me a footnote in this story. An innocent bystander in the crossfire. Nothing more.
What’s more, I’m being cast as the fiancée. In the papers…
“Kitten,” Win’s eyes meet mine. “Can you please give him your name for the police?”
For a moment my eyes widen. How does Win know I have the papers for multiple identities? One of them even has ties to Russian and English royalty, dating back to Queen Victoria. My father’s idea, and he paid handsomely for the identity.
“Katherine Alexandrov.”
One of the medics bends down to examine my arm, cleaning off the blood before placing a powder on my skin, likely to help it clot. “Flesh wound,” he says to Win. “But we should stitch it to reduce scarring and bleeding.”
“Told you,” I say to Win, even as two medics lift his shirt. The air rushes from my lungs as I realize, his is also a flesh wound to his side, and not a gut shot.
Unlike me, he’s barely bleeding.
I reach for him then, lacing my fingers through his. “Look at us. Matching bullet wounds.”
“Not funny, Kat,” he growls back, but I see his relief.
With amazing efficiency, we’re bandaged and pulled up, the medics each taking one of my arms. “Where are we going?”
“Airport.”
I don’t ask more as we’re helped out of the room to a back elevator.
It’s a large industrial space for bringing goods in and out of the hotel. One of the security members hits a button and the elevator starts up, not down. I’d expected us to go to the basement to a parking garage.
My brows lift, but I don’t ask. Just like I don’t ask if we’ll have to give statements or how much should be said in front of the medics. I stay silent.
The elevator stops at the top floor and we exit, immediately starting up a flight of stairs. My arm is starting to throb, right along with my head, but I ignore the pain as the door at the top of the stairs opens, revealing the roof of the hotel.
And the waiting helicopter. “It’s good to be a duke.”
