“It’s nothing,” he mutters, finally dragging his eyes away from the empty road. “Just a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch,” I say, reaching for his arm before I can stop myself. “You need stitches. Come on.”
He glances down at where my hand wraps around his wrist, and something flickers in his expression, something quieter than anger, that almost looks like he’s grounding himself on the feeling of my touch. He lifts his arm slightly, like he’s debating whether to pull back or hold on.
“We’re close to the hospital,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just let me fix it.”
He hesitates, jaw tight, but then he nods once. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Mikhail follows us with a tense look, staying alert as Artyom leads us back to the car. I slide into the passenger seat, myhands still shaking, my chest feeling too small for everything happening inside it. Artyom gets in beside me, jaw clenched, driving fast but controlled, eyes flicking to me every few seconds like he’s checking I’m still there.
Neither of us speaks on the way.
The silence is thick and electric, not angry but charged with something I can’t name, something that sits heavy at the base of my throat. I don’t know if he’s furious with me or with himself or with Lucas or with everything, but there’s a tension in him that makes the air feel hotter, tighter, like something is going to break.
When we pull up to the hospital, Mikhail steps out first, scanning the area. Artyom opens his door, but before he gets out, he turns to me.
“Stay close,” he says quietly, not an order this time, just something low and heavy and coaxing. “I’m not in the mood to lose you again.”
My chest twists. I nod.
Inside, I lead him through the elevator, down the hallway, into the underground wing the Bratva uses when they don’t want questions. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh against the sterile walls, and the whole place smells of antiseptic and something metallic and cold. I’ve worked here before, cleaned blood off these same floors, patched up men who walked in withbullet holes, but being here with him feels different. Everything feels smaller somehow, more intense.
He sits on the exam table, his legs spread a little, one hand braced on the metal edge while the other hangs at his side, dripping blood onto the floor. He looks too calm for someone who almost beat my brother unconscious and is still vibrating with fury beneath the surface.
I grab gloves, gauze, antiseptic. My hands are steadier than I expect, even though my heart hasn’t settled once since Lucas’s fingers were on my arm. I step closer, standing between Artyom’s legs to get a better angle on the cut, and that alone feels like a mistake, because the second I do, the air shifts around us, heavier, hotter. His eyes follow my every movement, dark and unreadable.
“This might sting,” I say, because I need to say something before the silence swallows me whole.
He doesn’t answer, just watches me.
I start cleaning the wound, slowly and carefully, and he barely flinches, but his breathing changes, deeper, tighter, like he’s holding something in. I’m focused on his arm, but I can feel him watching my face, tracing the lines of tension that are probably still written all over it.
When I press a little harder to flush out the blood, he suddenly slams his free hand against the metal table, making all the instruments jump and clatter.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut the air in half. “Don’t ever walk into something dangerous without telling me.”
I flinch, because the sound is loud in the confined room, and because I’ve never heard his voice this raw.
“Artyom,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“You could have been taken,” he growls, eyes burning into mine. “You could’ve been hurt again. Worse. And I wasn’t there.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” I say quietly.
“It doesn’t matter.” His jaw tightens. “I should have been there.”
“You didn’t know,” I try, but he shakes his head, breathing hard.
“You lied to me,” he says, quieter now but somehow harsher. “You lied and walked into danger alone.”
His voice breaks a little on the last word, and that’s when I see the fear beneath the anger, the panic he’s trying to hide, the same panic that almost tore through his control when he grabbed Lucas.
My chest softens. “I’m sorry,” I say, and the words feel too small but still true. “I shouldn’t have lied. I was scared and confused and… stupid. But I won’t apologize for caring about my brother.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly, like he’s fighting with himself. When he opens them again, they look different—still intense, still dark, but softer around the edges, like something in him cracked.
“I know you care about him,” he says, voice rough. “But I can’t lose you like that.”
