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“I—I thought⁠—”

“That was your first mistake.” I grabbed him by the collar, dragged him up, and hit him again. “Thinking. I don’t recall asking you to lay a finger on him.”

I threw him across the room. He hit the opposite wall and slid down like wet laundry. Two men had tried to kill Yuriy a few nights ago. Now this bastard had laid hands on him too. I was done being polite.

I threw a thick wad of cash at his feet as promised, my voice ice-cold. “Your fucking reward. Even look at him once, and you won’t live long enough to spend a dime.”

He whimpered, but my focus was already back on Yuriy. I took a knife from my boot and cut the rope that held Yuriy up. His body sagged forward like a marionette with its strings cut. He fell into my arms, heavy, limp, terrifying.

“Yuriy,” I murmured, slipping an arm under his knees and lifting him easily. “Fuck. Dammit, baby, why didn’t you call me?”

His head lolled against my shoulder, breath warm but faint. Was he unconscious?

“Sta…nislav…”

My chest seized.

I held him tighter, swallowing the panic clawing up my throat.

“I’ve got you,” I said, voice rough, barely keeping steady. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

24

YURIY

Iwoke with the taste of metal and stale vodka on my tongue. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. The ceiling above me wasn’t the one I remembered falling asleep under. Hell, I didn’t even remember falling asleep. My skull pulsed in hard, dull thuds, each one echoing behind my eyes like something trapped inside was trying to break free.

When I shifted, the room tilted. My stomach lurched. I stumbled to the bathroom and dropped to my knees in front of the toilet.

The retching came in waves, violent and uncontrollable. My throat burned raw. Tears leaked without permission, hot tracks down my cheeks. I clutched the rim of the toilet like it could keep me from sliding off the world.

I’d been drinking hard. I could handle my liquor better than most men, but the past couple of days, I’d needed the alcohol to make me numb.

Zasha’s face flashed in my mind. The shock. The anger. The way his voice shook when he told me to get out.

I spat bile, shaking.

When the nausea eased, I sat back against the cold tiled wall. The chill seeped straight into my bones, and for a long minute I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Everything felt too heavy—my limbs, my head, my heart.

I had the sudden urge to wrap myself up in Stas. But he was probably relieved I’d walked out, so he didn’t have to deal with telling me he’d changed his mind about us. If my own brother thought I was an asshole, how could Stas believe any different?

Instead of waiting for him to say the words, I’d fled. Because for the first time, I was sleeping with a man I didn’t want to get rid of.

I forced myself into the shower, one hand braced against the wall as I twisted the knob. Hot water hit my skin, and I inhaled sharp, steam-scorched air.

It didn’t help. The pounding in my head softened only enough for other things to break through: flashes, flickers, half memories blurred by liquor.

A rope biting into my wrists.

A blade glinting.

Hands—strong, steady—catching me as my knees gave out.

A voice, low and furious and familiar, cutting through the haze.

Stanislav.

I shut my eyes tighter. Water streamed down my face, too warm to be tears but still feeling like them. Had that really happened? I tried to piece it together, but the harder I reached, the more the memories scattered like frightened birds.