Page 282 of Sexting His Assistant

“Misha!” I shout.

He does not look at me this time. He is looking at Luka.

For one second, through the noise and blood and gunfire, they see each other.

Luka’s face hardens.

Misha’s mouth moves.

I cannot hear what he says.

Then Luka turns and shoots the man trying to crawl toward Misha with a knife.

Whatever is broken between them does not matter in that second.

They protect each other before they think.

Luka reaches me. He drops to one knee in front of my chair. His hand grips my face for half a second, fast and rough, like he has to feel that I’m real before he can breathe.

“Nina,” Luka says.

“I’m okay,” I say immediately.

“You are not okay.”

“I’m alive.”

His jaw tightens. “That is not the same.”

He pulls a knife from his belt and reaches behind me to cut the ropes at my wrists. His hand is steady.

Mine are shaking enough for both of us.

“Your head?” he asks.

“Still attached.”

“Nina.”

“I’m fine enough,” I say. “Misha⁠—”

“I see him.”

“No, he’s bad. Luka, he’s really bad.”

“I know,” Luka says.

The rope at my wrists gives. Pain rushes into my hands as blood returns. I hiss through my teeth.

Luka’s eyes flick to my face.

“Ankles,” I say quickly. “Cut my ankles.”

He bends. Then I see Oleg.

He’s near the broken work light, half-hidden behind a metal shelf. Blood runs from a cut on his forehead, but his gun is steady.

Aimed at Luka.