Kade triple-checks that I’m okay. He holds three fingers up, dropping two. And then he squats down low to the ground and races across to a new position, giving himself up in a sense because it’s no longer a secret he’s hiding.
He’s drawing the attacker’s attention to him. I want to punch him in the face for doing it, even though I understand his reasoning.
Another gunshot, then another, before there’s a volley of noise. I drop down low next to Roshka. I can’t tell if it came from Kade or not. I can’t even see him anymore. He’s out there, in the thick of it.
Once the sound of gunfire clears and my ears stop ringing, other noises become more obvious, including the sounds of people moving around. Someone shouts in Russian, and they blur past the hall I’m hiding in, running for their life, by the looks of it.
Slower footsteps follow, and Aleksei steps into the small snippet of where I can see. I watch, and much like with Kade, I observe proof of the life he was born into; it radiates in his stillness and confidence. He doesn’t waver when he draws his gun straight, and he doesn’t hesitate in pulling the trigger. One shot, and the man who was running drops to the ground. No grunts of pain, no pleas for help, just his body thudding as he drops dead on the spot.
Aleksei turns my way, his eyes locking on mine.
My feet fly as I race to him. Safe or not, I’m running to him. He holds a hand out for me, and this time, I see it trembling. “Are you okay?”
I nod and shake my head in answer as shock bubbles in my veins. I slam into him, his scent bursting around me, and I take a breath for the first time in a while.
Aleksei uses one arm to wrap around and hold me up, while Roshka buffers me from the other side. I don’t think I’m going to faint, but my legs are numb. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins; my brain doesn't yet realize we’re kind of okay.
Pressing my face against Aleksei’s chest, I use the steady beat of his heart and force myself to focus on breathing deep instead of asking questions. I can’t comprehend the gravity of the enormous change he’s bringing. It’s hard to fight against something I’ve desperately hoped for but never thought possible—but the tether that binds me to him is getting stronger with each moment.
We don’t rest there for long, just long enough. “We need to move fast. Very fast.”
I don’t get to question Aleksei. He tugs me along with him as he walks us to where the bodies are. He wraps his hands around my face and looks into my eyes before leaning down to kiss my forehead, stepping away right after. “As soon as I know Sergey is dead, we need to leave. Santiago is helping Kade. He is okay,rodnaya. Same with Nalla.”
As his words sink in, my world starts spinning and my chest squeezes.
He rushes back in, a sly, growing smirk on his face, “Everyone is okay. You know this. I even let Santiago live.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me to do what I need to do while he goes to do the same with a different clarity coating my senses. I turn and assess the scene again.
Aleksei is on his way to where Sergey is. My husband’s body is sprawled backward, his shirt showing how many times he got hit with bullets. Around him are the bodies of his mistresses and his friends. I’m not overjoyed by what I see, by any means, but I can’t lie and say I’m upset either.
Part of me stays with Aleksei, but the other parts of me are already spreading out as I search for Santiago and Kade. I find them as soon as I look.
They’re together. My feet are moving already. As my emotional side dials down, I get to take in more of what is going on. Santiago is pressing his hand against Kade’s thigh. Kade is pale but alert. His body is twisted, and he sits at an odd angle because Kade is pressing his hand against Nalla’s rump.
The two of them are injured. Alive but hurt.
Everything unnecessary fades away—the sounds the dying make, the lingering scent of gunfire and pain, the fear inside me—all of it shifts, allowing my clinical alter ego to step forward and take over.
I drop to my knees next to Santiago, putting my hand over his as I check him all over for injuries. His eyes are clear and hold the same blazing ego they usually do. He doesn’t have a scratch on him.
I turn my focus to Kade, instructing Santiago. “The restaurant will have to have some sort of first-aid kit in the kitchen. If not, paper towels or fresh linen will work. I’ll need some scissors or a knife and tape or something similar.”
I push him into action using my shoulder as I barge into the space he occupies. He gets up, but before he leaves, I feel the press of a soft kiss on the top of my head. It’s as solidifying and centering as Aleksei’s touch was. I need to unpack so much of their actions and my own responses, but now is not the time.
I can’t look Kade in the eyes until I know about his injury. Ripping his suit pants, I need to see what I’m dealing with. I need him okay. I need him, period.
The wound is simple enough, typical of a gunshot. The impact site is mid-thigh, off-center in the fleshy part of his leg, but it’s messy, cavitised, because the weapon was high-caliber. The blood flow is an indicator the bullet didn’t hit an artery. And all that registers, but try telling my heart that.
“Anywhere else, Kade?” I demand, finally looking up at him. His eyes are glazed with adrenaline and pain.
“Quinny, I’m okay.” He reaches a hand up to cup my face.
I smack his hand out of the way. “I’ll be the judge of that,” I snap.
My detachment to him and the situation is coming from a place of growing horror and endless maybes. If he had been one step ahead, or one second slower, when he was shot, he would be bleeding out. And I wouldn’t know what to do.
He doesn’t let my bitching stop him. His hand cups the back of my head, and he snatches me out of my cold place, drawing me to him with the strength of a hundred men. I couldn’t stop him from kissing me if I tried. Not that I do. At all.
