And there she is. Elizabeth. Like a fucking angel in this hellhole.
She’s watching me, and no one else exists.
That’s my fucking girl.
“Moya koroleva.” I raise my hands, palms outward, displaying the evidence of what they’ve done. “Don’t stain yourself touching me, I’m?—”
“I don’t care.”
She crosses the distance between us and throws herself into my arms.
I go rigid for one fraction of a second. I expected rejection and received the opposite. Then my arms close around her, carefully.
She withdraws enough for her hands to find my face, my jaw, the side of my neck, moving with rapid, methodical urgency, taking stock of damage.
“Are you hurt? Where—” Her fingers discover my shoulder. Her gaze drops to the saturated fabric. “Rolan, you’re?—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding?—”
“Elizabeth—”
“Rolan!”
The room collapses.
Not gradually. Not with the courtesy of a warning.
One moment, I’m studying her face, the grime on her cheek, the fierce concern in her eyes, and the next, the adrenaline that’s been sustaining me for the past two hours withdraws all at once.
The warehouse tilts and the edges of my vision darken. I have precisely enough awareness remaining to form a single, coherent thought before the darkness claims what is left.
Don’t fall on her.
37
ELLIE
I try to stop his fall. I barely succeed as his weight staggers me, my knees buckling under the sheer mass of him, and for one terrible second, I think we’re both going down.
Then others rush in, hands reaching from every direction, catching him before his head strikes the concrete.
“Rolan.” My voice has fractured beyond recognition. “Rolan, stay with me. Stay?—”
“He’s lost too much blood.” Alexei is beside me, materializing with the reflexes of a man who has been watching for this moment. “The shoulder wound is extensive. We need to move him. Now.”
“Then move him.” I hear myself — clear, steady, commanding in a register I don’t recognize as mine. “Right now.”
They move him. Alexei’s men produce an armored vehicle with the engine already running, and I climb in beside Rolan and press my hands against his shoulder, feeling his blood warm and persistent against my palms, watching his face for any sign of consciousness and finding none.
“We need to go to a hospital,” I tell Alexei.
“Rolan does not go to hospitals,” he says. Not unkindly. Factually. “There is a doctor. He’s managed worse than this. The only assistance you can provide at this moment is to stop talking and allow me to drive faster.”
I stop talking.
Beeping.
