Page 23 of Bratva Ruin

And that means I won.

The gate shuts behind me. Inside, the house is lit up as I take out my gun out of habit and check the corners anyway.

No shadows that don’t belong.

No movement.

Just silence.

For a second, I let myself believe she’s asleep. She doesn’t need to see this. But that’s wishful thinking, and I stopped believing in that a long time ago.

As soon as I hit the top step, her voice finds me.

“Benedikt?”

I stop dead in my tracks when I find her standing in the hallway, barefoot, hair mussed, and one of her baggy shirts hanging off her shoulder. Her eyes drop to the blood on my side like she can smell it from where she is, and whatever she was about to say dies in her throat.

“What are you doing up?”

She blinks at me, then studies me with suspicion. “You were out late.”

“So?”

“So…” She takes a step closer. “Where is your entourage?”

“I decided to pull a you and do things alone.”

I expect Sienna to glower, but she continues to observe me until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Jesus,” she whispers, erasing more space between us. “What happened?”

I don’t acknowledge or play dumb. I’m bleeding, and there’s no need to deny it. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“That’s not nothing. You’re hurt.”

I should walk past her, but I freeze.

“I said it’s fine.”

“Ben—” Her voice cracks a little, and I hate that it gets to me. That part of me—the part that used to feel—still reacts when she is scared. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not the first time.”

She grabs my arm, firm and steady, and I feel that stupid pull in my chest again.

She’s shaking, but she doesn’t let go. “Sit down in the living room. I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

I laugh. “You planning to fix bullet wounds now?”

“Shut up and sit, Benedikt.”

Her tone’s sharper this time, enough to make me stop arguing. I enter the living room and drop onto the edge of one of the couches, pulling off my ruined leather jacket with a hiss.

It’s just a shoulder graze, but it’s ugly—torn skin and blood smeared down my side.

Sienna returns with peroxide and gauze. Her hands tremble as she opens the bottle, and the smell stings my nostrils.

“You called me Ben,” I say.