He barely looks at his arm. "It's nothing.”
He hasn't pushed me to talk once during the ride. He's been a silent, steady weight beside me, keeping me grounded. He reaches out, and his bruised hand gently wraps around my shaking, bloody fingers, pulling them away from my stomach.
"I left Ivan and my men to secure the refinery," he says. "They're taking your father's body to a private mortuary so the police don't get involved. You won't have to look at paperworkor answer questions. I'll take care of the funeral whenever you're ready."
I stare at him, my throat stinging so bad I can barely swallow. "You hated him," I whisper. "Why would you do this?"
Konstantin doesn't flinch. He doesn't give me a comforting lie.
"I did hate him," Konstantin says. His honesty grounds me. "I wanted him dead for a long time. But tonight," he says, his jaw tightening, "he threw himself in front of a gun to save my wife. The debt’s paid, Helena. I'm not burying him as an enemy. I'll bury him with the respect he earned in his final moments."
Hearing him say it out loud, with so much finality, breaks whatever is left of my composure.
I slump sideways and bury my face against his shoulder. The tears come fast.
I cry for the mother I lost to a lie. For the cowardly father who sold his soul for me. And I cry out of pure, terrifying relief that the man holding me right now survived the night.
Konstantin wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. He shuts out the rest of the world, keeping me anchored against him until the SUV finally pulls into the garage at the penthouse.
The ride up the elevator is quiet.
When the doors open, the quiet luxury of the home welcomes us. The soft lights and clean floors make it feel like a different universe compared to the slaughterhouse we left.
Konstantin leads me down the hall to the master suite. When we reach the bedroom door, he stops.
"I need to make a few calls," he says softly. He looks at my pale face. "I'll give you some privacy. Take whatever time you need."
Panic spikes in my chest, sharp and painful.
The thought of being alone in this quiet room with nothing but the echo of that gunshot in my head is terrifying. I can't be alone. If I am, I'll fall completely apart.
"No," I protest, gripping his shirt with my bloody fingers. "Don't leave me. Please. Stay."
His eyes soften. He doesn't argue or hesitate. "I'm right here.”
He leads me into the master bathroom. I catch a glimpse of myself in the huge mirror, and my breath hitches at the crime scene canvas I’ve become. My lip is bruised and split. My black sweater is soaked and stiff with my father's blood.
I need it off me.
My hands shake so badly that the wool of my sweater slips through my fingers. It’s dragged over my head and dropped onto the white tile in a blood-soaked heap. Numb fingers fumble with the buttons of my jeans before they fall away, boots kicked aside until nothing is left.
Completely stripped, I stand shivering in front of the most dangerous man I know.
My husband watches with an unreadable intensity. He says nothing. Reaching past me, he turns on the shower and lets steam slowly fill the glass enclosure.
The spray hits my skin as I step beneath it, and he quietly slides the door shut behind me, keeping his promise to stay in the room.
The second the hot water touches me, something inside fractures.
A sob rips free. My knees give out. Arms wrap around my stomach as I slide down the wet glass and collapse onto the floor.
The crying comes hard.
My face disappears into my hands, a broken wail echoing off the marble. It doesn’t stop. Not as my throat turns raw. Not asmy chest burns. Back and forth beneath the spray, rocking under the crushing weight of the night.
A moment later, the glass door slides open.
Konstantin steps into the shower, fully naked. He doesn't tell me to stop crying or offer any empty words. He crouches down on the floor in front of me, ignoring the hot water pouring over his scarred shoulders.
