Page 113 of The Bratva King

I slide my arms under him and haul him up, keeping his head as steady as I can. He’s dead weight. My shoulder screams in protest, but I don’t care. I get one arm behind his back and the other under his knees and lift him.

My security team surrounds us, weapons drawn, scanning the perimeter. One of them is on his radio, calling for backup. Another is trying to get me to move.

“We need to get you inside, sir.”

I move.

We go back through the front entrance, past the construction crew who are frozen in shock, and straight through to the back of the building. Someone’s already brought another car around.

I lower Pasha into the back seat as carefully as I can, supporting his head until he’s down. Blood is still running from the wound near his temple.

“Hospital,” I bark at the driver.

The car peels out of the lot as sirens wail in the distance. Fire trucks. Police. They’re coming, but they’re too late.

I pull off my shirt and press it against Pasha’s head wound to slow the bleeding. My hands are shaking. I clench my jaw and force them steady.

He’s alive. He’s going to be fine.

This is not my first explosion. It’s not even my second. I know this feeling. The ringing in my ears. The general feeling of having my brain scrambled.

The driver is weaving through traffic, pushing the speed limit. I don’t tell him to slow down.

“Call his mother.” My voice sounds strange. Distant. “Tell her to get to the hospital. She can take Mila to my house. Kylie is there.”

One of the security guys in the front seat makes the call.

I keep pressure on Pasha’s head. Blood soaks through the fabric. Too much blood.

“Pasha, don’t you fucking die on me.”

His eyelids flutter but don’t open. He won’t deny an order. He’s fighting.

The hospital comes into view, and the driver pulls straight up to the emergency entrance. The security guard jumps out and opens the back door.

“Get a doctor,” I tell him.

They pull Pasha out of the car and onto a gurney. I follow, but a nurse stops me at the doors.

“Sir, you need to stay here. We’ll take care of him.”

“I’m going with him.”

“Sir…”

“I’m going with him.”

Something in my face makes her step aside.

I follow them through the double doors and down a sterile hallway that smells like disinfectant. They wheel him into a trauma room, and suddenly, there are too many people, too many voices, and too much noise.

Someone is asking me questions. What happened. How long was he unconscious. Does he have any allergies.

I try, but I can’t get my thoughts to form words.

I walk out of the room.

My hands are covered in his blood. I realize I’m only wearing a black tank top. I look down and see debris embedded in my forearm. I pull out a shard of metal and barely feel it.