Chapter 12
Sergei stepped insidethe safe house, breathing in the stale air of the familiar setup above the abandoned bodega, reinforced doors and barred windows.Keisha paced the room’s center, arms hugging herself, eyes snapping to him.
Relief flashed in her gaze, but she masked it fast.He was glad that Nadia and Mateo had gotten her and Tiana here safe, but staying behind to shake the enforcers’ tail had left him in the rain, wondering if he’d make it back to her.
“You made it,” she said, voice low, stepping closer but stopping short.
He nodded, locking the deadbolts with quick twists.“Yes, we are in the clear for now.”
Her gaze fell to the blood stain on his t-shirt.The safehouse was basic but solid.One room, a bed, and a detached bathroom through the narrow door, first aid laid out on the edge of the bed.
“The bathroom is through there,” she said, nodding to the door.“Let’s get you cleaned up before you bleed everywhere.”
One corner of his mouth quirked as he tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair.“Bossy already.”
“Practical,” she said, a twitch of sass cutting the worry he could see in her stance.
His eyes met hers briefly, skittering away.Trust stretched thin between them.
“Thanks, Keisha,” he said, voice soft.
She turned, checking the window locks.Rain pelted glass, neon distorted below.The safehouse hid behind graffiti-coded stairs, a spot Nadia swore was off Kryvaya Stal’s radar.Her fingers traced the blackout curtain.
“They won’t find us here,” he said, more to himself.
“You sure?”
He wasn’t, not fully, but she needed certainty.“Yeah.”
Her warmth was torture and salvation.His hands shook as he shoved them into his pockets.
“You’re still bleeding,” Keisha said, cutting through.
He glanced down to see blood seeping through his t-shirt.“It’s no big deal.”
“Let me look.”Her voice firm.
He could imagine her speaking to her kids with the same tone.
“I’ve had worse.”
“You’re not helping,” she said, a twitch of sass.
His mouth quirked.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the chair.
He sat, chair creaking.Keisha grabbed a clean cloth, wet it, each move sharp despite exhaustion.Her vanilla scent hit, mixing with rain, his cock stirring.She stood between his knees, fingers brushing his collarbone, tugging his shirt.He inhaled, sharply not from pain, but from her touch.
“This needs stitches,” she said, dabbing blood, gentle but firm.
“No hospitals.”
“I know.”
He looked at her.“Can you do it?If not, Nadia—”
