Page 111 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

My chest felt split open.

"You got shot and you're asking me?"

His gaze dropped to my stomach.

"The baby."

"We're fine," I said fast.

Truth was, I couldn't feel anything anymore. I only knew his blood kept pouring out from under my hand, burning me alive.

"Good." He exhaled.

"It's not good." My nose stung. "Look at me. Don't close your eyes."

"I know." His voice was terrifyingly weak.

Fear strangled my throat. Tears streamed down my face.

"You goddamn idiot." My teeth chattered. "Why did you take that bullet for me?"

He looked at me. Those eyes that always silenced entire rooms had lost their edge, but the stubbornness remained.

"Because it's you," he said. "I love you."

My heart nearly stopped from the pain.

His eyes started closing. I grabbed him.

"Look at me, Varlam. You owe me a hell of a lot of explanations. You don't get to blow me off with one sentence."

Makar appeared beside us, his face bloodless. He looked at me and Varlam, then finally said, "Ambulance is coming. Hang on."

"Let me see the wound." Gleb came over, a cut on his temple, expression unchanged.

He knelt down, tore off the bottom of Varlam's shirt, and pressed the folded fabric under my hand.

"Bullet's positioned on the outer side." Gleb examined the wound. "Didn't exit through the front. As long as his blood pressure holds, he'll make it to the hospital."

"As long as?"

Gleb didn't answer. I hated that he wouldn't sugarcoat it. And because he wouldn't, I was even more terrified. Makar threw down his gun, stripped off his jacket, rolled it up, and shoved it under Varlam's legs. His movements were clumsy, almost frantic.

Men ran in with a stretcher. Gleb directed them to lift Varlam from the side to avoid pressure on the wound. I kept my hand on the fabric.

They raised the stretcher. I bent over and followed alongside, one hand pressing the wound, the other gripping Varlam's hand.

Red and blue lights sliced through the night. The ambulance sat outside the abandoned factory. Paramedics rolled out a gurney and transferred Varlam.

The doors shut behind us, sealing out the gunfire, the wind, the factory. Varlam lay under white lights, electrodes on his chest, face ashen, silver hair soaked with sweat.

His body carried too many old scars. Knife wounds, bullet marks, layered on top of each other. Maybe he'd gotten used to pain. But I'd just learned that watching him hurt was worse than being hurt myself. The paramedics reapplied pressure. Varlam groaned. I squeezed his hand tighter.

The ambulance finally stopped at the hospital emergency entrance.

They wheeled him inside. I chased them to the trauma corridor. A nurse blocked me from the surgical wing.

The door closed in my face. The red light came on. My body felt hollowed out.