“Hold still,” I murmur, my fingers trembling as I thread the needle. The medical kit here is well-stocked, but I’ve never stitched human flesh before. “This is going to hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.” His green eyes meet mine. Despite the pain etched into his features, there’s something soft in his gaze. Something that makes my heart skip.
I take a breath and push the needle through his skin.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a sound, but I feel his muscles tense beneath my touch. Blood seeps around the thread, and I have to blink back tears as I work.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” His good hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing away an escaping tear. “You saved my life back there. If you hadn’t fought alongside me…”
“If I’d fired sooner, if I’d…” My voice cracks. “You almost died because of me.”
“I’d do it again.” The certainty in his voice steals my breath. “A thousand times over.”
I finish the stitches in silence, my hands steadier now.
When I tie off the last one and bandage his shoulder, he catches my wrist and pulls me down beside him on the narrow bed.
The mattress dips under our combined weight, and suddenly we’re so close I can count the flecks of gold in his green eyes.
“Tell me about Nicole,” I say softly. “Really tell me. Not the version you use to justify revenge. The real her.”
Something shifts in his expression. Pain, raw and devastating, floods his features. For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then he takes a shaky breath.
“She was everything good in my life.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. “After our parents died, it was just the two of us. I promised her I’d keep her safe, give her a normal life despite…” He gestures vaguely, encompassing his world of violence and blood. “Despite what I am.”
I thread my fingers through his, and he grips my hand like it’s a lifeline.
“She wanted to be a doctor. Did I tell you that?” A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “She used to practice on her stuffed animals, wrapping them in bandages and giving them pretendmedicine. She had this way of seeing the good in everyone, even the men who worked for me. Even me.”
“You’re not all bad,” I whisper.
“I failed her.” The words come out broken. “I was supposed to protect her, and I failed. When those men broke into our home, when they…” His jaw clenches, and I see the muscle jump. “She was sixteen. Just a kid. And they destroyed her.”
I shift closer, resting my head against his uninjured shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have been there. Should have known she was still breaking when she started withdrawing, when she stopped eating. I was too focused on business, on expanding territory, on proving I was worthy of leading the family.” His voice breaks. “Twice I failed her.”
Tears stream down my face now, soaking into his shirt. “I’m so sorry. God, Mikhail, I’m so sorry.”
“I found her in the bathtub.” The words are barely audible. “The water was red. She’d left a note, apologizing. As if any of it was her fault.” His chest heaves with a sob he’s trying to suppress. “She was my baby sister, and I couldn’t save her.”
I lift my head to look at him, and the devastation in his eyes breaks something inside me.
Without thinking, I press my lips to his.
The kiss is soft, tender, nothing like the passionate encounters we’ve shared before.
This is comfort.
Understanding.
Shared grief.
When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine. “Tell me about your brother.”
The request catches me off guard.
