“You said you wouldn’t be kidnapped again.” I change the subject as I study the stash I brought. We have a few protein bars that can last us at least two days.
An antibiotic shot, antihistamine pills, ibuprofen, a first aid emergency kit, a spare shirt, and two bottles of water, one of which is currently being finished by Yulian.
He needs to stay hydrated due to his blood loss, and I need to remove the bullet and stitch the wound—two things I’ve never done before.
And as proven by my reflex skills earlier, practice and theory are completely different.
“And?” he asks, sipping from the bottle.
“And does that mean you were kidnapped before?”
“You weren’t?”
“No…” I say slowly, feeling as if I’m saying the wrong thing.
“Of course you weren’t.” He laughs, the sounds not amused or mocking, just…unhinged, then he coughs and winces. “Bet you’re a sheltered little princess.”
“No, I’m not.” I dab the cotton harder, making him grunt. “People just don’t dare to go against my dad. I would’ve assumed it’s the same with your dad.”
“Nah, I’ve had so many attempted assassinations.” He counts on his hands. “The maid, the butler, my nanny, my teacher, my driver, the cook, the gardener…the whole household, really.”
I pause, staring up at him, but he’s smiling. “Staff members tried to kill you?”
“Kidnap me, mostly, or maybe some tried to kill me. I’m not sure. And not only staff members, everyone at school, activity clubs. I’m a moving target. You got stuck in my unlucky web. My condolences, Mishka.”
No wonder he could see the assassins coming. He had the worst experiences to gain that foresight.
“Your dad didn’t protect you?” I frown, becausesurely, even if Yaroslav doesn’t approve of his son, he would protect his heir.
“Nah. From when I was around seven or eight, when the attempts started, he told me a real man gets out of these experiences alive and stronger. If I died, then I was weak, and he didn’t need a weak son…motherfucker!”
Yulian is hitting the ground again because I pressed on his wound in my rage against Yaroslav fucking Dimitriev.
I knew we lived in a world full of monsters, but that man is the worst kind.
Who the hell leaves their seven-year-old son to fend for himself against assassins?
Seven goddamn years old.
“I’m sorry.” I search for the scissors. I’ll have to use Yulian’s lighter to sanitize them; he definitely has one, considering all the cigarettes he smokes on the regular.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he groans, lying through his teeth. “This is child’s play. I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sorry your dad is a piece of shit. And this is not child’s play.”
His lips part, and he pinches his lower one between his fingers, then drops his hand and looks in the direction of the cave’s opening. “It’s really nothing.”
“Is it nothing that you decided to take a bullet for me?”
“I just wanted to get you out of the way.”
“Bullshit. People don’t throw themselves at death’s door just for nothing.”
Thing is, I don’t even know what type of answer I want from Yulian.
I don’t like this whole fucking situation, because now, I’m indebted to him.
With my life.
