Page 60 of Beneath Scarred Vows

Her fingers grip my jacket, digging in like she's afraid I'll disappear. I look down and see it again.

Her blood.

I can't stop seeing it. Spilled by someone who doesn't value life—because I'm going to take it from them.

The rage builds inside me, a living thing with teeth and claws that tears at my insides, demanding release. It starts as a burning coal in my stomach, then spreads through my veins like Greek fire—unstoppable, all-consuming.

I hold Katerina with one arm, keeping her pressed against me, while my eyes find Chris over her shoulder. He stands by the car, alert and waiting. I want to ask him what happened, the full details, but I know I'll get it in time.

For now, my rage just wants a voice.

"I want the fucking head of whoever did this," I command, and I'm not exaggerating.

Chris nods once, sharply.

You go after my wife and sister, the two most important women in my life, a literal head is what I'm after now.

Katerina shivers against me. Whether from pain, shock, or my words, I don't know. Don't care. She's alive. That's all that matters.

"Let me see," I say, gentler now as I ease her back just enough to examine her wound. My fingers carefully peel back the makeshift bandage of tissues. The bullet grazed her upper arm, leaving a raw, bleeding trail in her flesh.

"It needs to be cleaned," I say, keeping my voice controlled despite the storm raging inside me. "Let's get you inside."

She nods, her face pale but composed. There's no hysteria, no tears—just a calmness to her. She's stronger than I gave her credit for.

The house is in lockdown mode—extra guards at every entrance, men with assault rifles patrolling the perimeter. Fear and danger are heavy in the air, but here, in the circle of my arms, Katerina is untouchable.

"Does she need a doctor?" Theo says, appearing in the front hallway. His eyes flick to Katerina's bloodied arm, then back to my face.

"No, I'll tend to her myself," I reply.

As we ascend the grand staircase, I feel Katerina lean more heavily against me. I tighten my grip on her waist.

"Almost there," I mutter against her hair.

In our bedroom, I guide her to sit on the loveseat.

"Stay here, let me get a first aid kit," I say and walk into the bathroom.

I walk out and I see her staring down at her outfit.

"I liked this dress and now it's ruined," she says, sounding almost conversational.

I laugh. "I'll buy you a hundred more," I say, setting the first aid box down and opening it.

Her eyes look over the contents of the box and then at me. There's a bit of vulnerability filling them.

"Could you..." she hesitates, then continues, "could you help me change? I don't want to look at the blood anymore."

"Of course," I say, my voice rough. "Let me get you something to wear."

I walk into her closet, selecting a loose button-up shirt that won't irritate her wound. When I return, she's trying to stand, wincing slightly.

"Don't," I command, then relax my voice. "Let me."

My fingers find the zipper at the back of her dress, and I ease it down slowly. The sound it makes is louder than usual—a reminder we're both quiet. I carefully slide it off her shoulders and help her step out of it.

She's standing in her bra and underwear. I try not to look at her in that way, but I can't avoid it. My eyes rake over her beautiful body. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to hide her burn, even though I've told her not to.