Page 24

I try to lend Agafon a hand as we head up the stairs, offering to let him wrap an arm around my shoulders for support, but he refuses.

“I’m alright, I swear,” he waves me off and carries on by himself.

But, is he?

I don’t know how he’s doing it, walking to his bedroom. The blood has now dried down his sleeve, and there’s so much of it that I feel like I might faint at the sight. Anxiety is crawling through me, but I keep my shit together for him.

He holds his left arm carefully against his body, and from the way he walks, I know he’s in pain. Yet, of course, he won’t admit it.

But even getting him to listen is a task, and I’m just grateful he’s agreeing to let me clean him up. Tonight, I saw just how obstinate he’s capable of being. He refused to see a doctor, refused my help until I raised my voice.

And something in him changed when I did.

I put on quite a convincing show, and I think he saw I needed help, or I would make myself sick with worry.

Though I am glad he’s come around, I’m also sad to see that he doesn’t know how to let alone ask for help, but even accept it when it’s being offered.

How lonely his life must be; how terribly difficult it is to carry all that burden on his shoulders.

Once we reach the end of the corridor upstairs, I rush ahead of him and open the door to let him through. He literally glowers at me for doing so, mumbling yet another, “I’m fine.”

Clearly, he hates being fussed over. He’s the kind of man who would probably operate on himself if he could.

Once inside, I wave him toward the bed. “Sit,” I tell him with a glower of my own, and though he raises his eyebrows at the command in my voice, he does as asked. Thank god.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” I ask.

“It’s in the bathroom, under the sink.” His eyes point at the door.

“Thanks.” I give him a smile. “Be right back. Don’t run off.”

In answer, he tries to lift his left arm and winces in the process. Message received. He’s in too much pain to run.

In the bathroom, under the sink, I find the first aid kit as he said I would.

When I lift it, it’s heavier than usual, and I know why.

Agafon’s work, his life, requires hospital-like assistance at the strangest hours on some days.

It scares me that he needs something this medical-grade lying around in his bedroom, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, can I?

My brothers lead their lives the same way. This fear, I was born with it. Will probably die with it. It’s my responsibility to manage it.

Back by his side, I set the kit on the bed beside him and lean over him. “Would you mind?” I ask, pointing at his shirt. “I need to see the wound.”

He moves to unbutton it himself, but his fingers fumble. Without asking, I kneel between his knees and take over, aware of his breath against my collarbone. I try to remove the shirt and notice the cloth is stuck to the wound.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for some saline and scissors. “I’m going to have to cut it off because otherwise, it can rip off the clot and bleed again.”

“Do what you must,” he says. I wince the whole time, literally feeling like I’m the one in pain as inch by inch, I soak and cut the material, careful not to hurt him.

I sigh with relief when it’s finally off.

“Good job,” he says, his face contorted in pain. Even if I was gentle, I know that must have hurt. “Most people would have scuttled off in fear.”

“Grew up with four brothers, remember? I've seen worse than a little blood.”

With his shirt now off, I have a good look at his wound, a harrowing slice across his left shoulder. I suck in air from the shock itself, and my gaze meets his.

“This is a bullet graze,” I say, not a question.

“Yes.” His eyes search mine.

“Were you going to mention that someone shot at you, or was I supposed to guess?”

“I thought it was obvious,” he shrugs.

My eyes widen. “Are you serious? You thought it was obvious I’d know you meant bullet when you said graze?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and at the look of exasperation on my face, his mouth twitches.

I pull out some cotton and antiseptic and point the antiseptic in his face before I uncap it. “Not funny!” I say with a straight face.

“This will sting,” I warn before applying the antiseptic.

He doesn't flinch, but I catch the slight flaring of his nostrils and the momentary stiffening of his body. I work carefully to clean away dried blood, and finally, when the wound is clear, I’m able to assess the true extent of the damage.

The bullet cut through the skin and a little of the surface muscle, but I don’t see it causing any long-term hassles.

Half an inch difference could have resulted in an entirely different ending.

The thought makes my stomach twist, and for a moment, I stop to send a prayer to the universe for giving Agafon sheer good luck.

“Beth?” he whispers, and when I look back at him, his gray eyes are warm, harrowed because I’m harrowed. I shake off my fear and, without thinking, reach out and cup his face in my hand. He leans into it gently, receptive.

“You need stitches,” I say softly. “Professional ones.”

“No hospitals.” His voice is flat and non-negotiable.

“Agafon—”

“No hospitals, Lilibeth. Please.” There’s something in the way he says please, as though he’s so tired, as though he needs me to find a way to make this easier.

And right about now, I’ll do anything to make him feel more at peace.

I sigh and examine the medical kit's contents. “Lucky for you, I know basic field stitching. Another perk of growing up as an Orlov. Hold still.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. My hands tremble slightly as I thread the curved needle, but I steady myself as I position it against his skin.

“This will hurt,” I say.

“It already hurts,” he answers simply.

I work in silence and take longer than I know a medical professional would, but I want to be careful with each stitch.

I know this wound will heal, but it will scar, and the neater the stitches I place, the less scarring there’ll be.

Agafon sits unnaturally still while I work, as though getting these stitches is as easy as taking a bath.

“Are you okay?” I ask every few minutes. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“I can hardly feel a thing,” he tells me. “I’m fine.”

He can’t be, I know that. But he’s putting on a brave face for me, so I don’t get scared. I appreciate it, I truly do, but I feel scared the whole time anyway.

“Almost done,” I murmur, tying off the last stitch.

“Thank you, it’s perfect.”

“It'll scar.”

“One more won't matter.”

My eyes drift to the other marks on his body, noting all the violence he’s survived. My heart once again races, wondering how long he can keep this up. But again, that isn’t a conversation for now. Today, I need to hold my shit together for him.

I apply antibiotic ointment, cover the wound with gauze, and secure the bandaging with tape. My fingers linger against his skin a moment longer than necessary, taking in this moment that he’s fine. He survived. He’ll live.

“There,” I say, stepping back. “All better.”

“Thank you,” he says, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice.

The exhaustion hits him now that the adrenaline has faded. I can see it in the slight droop of his shoulders, the heaviness of his eyelids.

“You should rest,” I say, packing away the medical supplies. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“No.” But he moves toward the head of the bed.

I hesitate, unsure if I should reach out to help, but before I can decide, he’s settled himself in.

I leave the medical kit by his bedside table in case he needs a painkiller later. To my surprise, he scoots over. Our eyes connect, and he gives me a small, wary smile.

“I’m not sleepy,” he says, searching my eyes to see if I’ll accept his invitation for company. “Just tired.”

I nod with a smile and sit on the edge of the bed, facing him as he leans against the bedrest.

I reach out and place my hand over his. Surprise flashes across his face, and his eyes snap from mine to our hands before reaching back for mine.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” I say.

“Me too,” he sighs. “All thanks to you.”

I shake my head. “What happened tonight, anyway? Who was behind the attack?”

I’d been curious from the start, but I knew my questions could wait. Now seems like an okay time to ask.

Agafon stares at me for a moment, as though deciding if he should answer. I don’t push him. I simply let him think it through, knowing that Agafon has carried everyone’s worries for so damn long, that he finds it hard to share information. Instead, I simply squeeze his hand in support.

Then, he takes a deep breath before he begins to speak, but as he does, his eyes turn away from me, settling on our hands and looking distant as though he’s getting lost in his thoughts.

“The Sokolovs were responsible for what happened tonight,” he starts. “They’ve been old rivals of the family’s. They've been quiet for years, but apparently they've decided to... reassert themselves. Tonight, they wanted to steal a valuable shipment of arms.”

“I've heard the name,” I admit. My brothers occasionally mentioned the Sokolovs—another Bratva family. They were once powerful but are becoming weaker now due to reckless decisions.

“They've always been reckless. Unpredictable.” A look of worry crosses his eyes, as though he’s afraid of what trouble the Sokolovs might bring his way next.

I listen intently, my hand tightening around his without realizing it. He squeezes back, and what he says next leaves me shocked.

“Nikandr was involved with them, back in time.”

“Nikandr?” I can’t help but whisper out on hearing that name on Agafon’s lips. For so long, I tried to ask where he might be, waited for someone to say something, and what little information I received about him was through Katya and Tatiana.