His gaze lowered slowly to the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his leg — then drifted to the darker stains seeping through the fabric on his torso.
Pain marked him.
But it didn’t break him.
His eyes lifted again and met mine.
For the first time since I had known Ruslan Baranov — the ruthless, calculating man who controlled everything around him — he looked uncertain.
Not defeated.
Not apologetic.
Uncertain.
That small shift unsettled me more than his threats ever had.
“Take me to my sister,” I said, seizing the silence before it could stretch too long. “I want to be with her until she’s stable. Until I know she’s going to live.”
His jaw tightened.
He exhaled slowly — a long, controlled breath that betrayed the discomfort radiating through his body.
Then he leaned his head back against the chaise cushion.
“You shot me twice,” he said dryly. “How exactly do you expect me to drive you anywhere right now?”
“Then tell your men to take me.”
His eyes flicked toward mine.
“I can’t.”
The words were quiet.
Almost tired.
“Give me a few hours,” he continued. “Let the painkillers kick in. Let the bleeding slow. We’ll go together.”
He shifted slightly — adjusting his weight to relieve pressure on his wounded leg — and settled deeper into the cushions.
His breathing was shallow but controlled.
Like a man trained to endure pain without letting it control him.
“And Elena...”
My name from his lips sounded heavier now.
Different.
“Stop threatening me with that gun.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You don’t actually want to kill Yannis’s father, do you?”
The mention of his son snapped through me like cold water.
