But she gets to me first.
She doesn’t even look at the blood on my sleeve before her hands are on me, checking my arms, my ribs, my shoulder, like she needs physical proof that I am still upright, and I feel the heat of her palms through denim and leather and irritation, because I want to tell her she should not be touching me in the middle of a parking lot full of armed men. Then I remember she does not care what any of us think when she decides something is hers to decide.
“Where,” she demands, and it is not a question that allows a joke.
“It’s a graze,” I start to say, because reflex is reflex.
“Where,” she repeats, and her eyes lift to mine with that hard, contained fury.
“My arm,” I answer, and I keep my hands at my sides even though I want to steady her.
She grabs the fabric and pulls it back before I can make another comment about it. The air hits the torn skin and the sting spikes, and she presses her fingers near the edge of the wound to inspect it like she is verifying something, and I hiss before I can stop myself.
Her eyes snap up instantly. “You are not fine.”
“I said I was standing,” I counter, because it is the only argument I have that is not a lie.
“That is not the same thing,” she fires back, and her voice stays steady, which is almost worse than if she was crying. There is no drama in her tone. No tears. Just anger that she is forcing into control.
Dmitri reaches us then, and his presence is immediate, all sharp edges and restraint that looks polite right up until it isn’t. He does not touch her, but he positions himself close enough that I know he could pull her back with one hand if he decided to, and I also know he won’t unless he has to, because she would tear him apart for it.
“You returned fire?” he asks me, voice level.
“Yes,” I answer, and I meet his gaze because looking away would be a mistake.
“Did they identify you?”
“They knew who I was,” I say, and I keep it factual because that is the language he speaks best. “They came up behind me like they had a plan, and they shot like they wanted me down and not just scared.”
Mikhail steps in beside Dmitri then, calm but sharp-eyed, and he does not crowd the space. He watches first, and then he speaks like he is already sorting this into categories.
“They followed you from the bar?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “They stayed far enough back that it looked normal at first, and then they closed distance when the road opened up, and they started firing as soon as they had a clean line.”
“Vehicle description?” Mikhail asks, and his tone is diplomatic but precise, the kind of controlled that makes people answer him without realizing they are doing it.
“Black SUV,” I reply. “No plates.”
Blade answers from behind me without moving. “Windows tinted dark. They didn’t linger.”
Viktor arrives last, and when he does, the temperature shifts without him raising his voice. He takes in the wrecked bike, the blood on my sleeve, his daughter’s hands still gripping my cut, and the way my men are positioned but not aggressive. He also takes in Mason, the way he is standing, and the fact that this place is not chaos even after an attempt on my life.
“Are you stable?” Viktor asks me directly.
“Yes,” I answer, because if he wants a real answer, that is the real one.
He nods once, then his gaze slides to Anya. “Anastasiya.”
She does not turn immediately, and that tells me as much as anything else, because she is choosing to finish what she is doing first. She finally eases her hands back from my arm, but she does not step away, and her body stays angled toward me like she is still ready to catch me if I sway.
“This is because of me,” she says quietly, and everyone hears it anyway.
“No,” I say at the same time Viktor says, “No.”
She looks up at me, and there’s something raw in her expression that she is trying to keep under control.
“They shot you because you helped me,” she insists, and the way she says it sounds like she is already punishing herself.
