Page 68 of Cruel Juliet

So I do the only thing I can do: what I’m told.

My body moves on its own. I climb the stairs because Luka said to, but my legs feel weak the whole way up.

When I get to the room, I drop to a seat on the edge of the bed and clutch the blanket in both hands. My heart aches, but underneath the pain is fear. Not just fear of losing him, but fear of what that loss would mean for me and the baby.

The house. His Bratva. These people who would circle like vultures the moment he’s gone. I don’t even want to think about it, but I can’t stop.

My mind races through one awful image after another. Petyr bleeding somewhere. The men carrying him inside. Luka covered in blood that isn’t his. The doctor saying it was too late. Each scenario worse than the last, so real I can almost hear it.

I press a hand to my stomach and try to calm myself, but it only makes the ache sharper.

“He’s okay,” I whisper, more to the life inside of me than to myself. “He has to be.”

We were finally starting to find our way back to each other. He was softer with me, more patient. We were talking again. Touching again. For the first time in months, I felt like maybe we could fix this.

If he dies now, we’ll never get to clear the air. We’ll never get to make things right.

It’s a selfish thought, but I can’t help it. I want him to live—for me.Us. What we still haven’t said.

My hand moves over my belly again. The baby isn’t kicking right now, as if she realizes on some deeper level how bad things are.

What if she never gets to meet him? If last night was the last time she’ll ever feel his hands around us? The last time he’ll hold me, hold her through me?

The thought is too much to take.

I fold forward, elbows on my knees, my hands clasped tight in my lap. All I can do is wait. For footsteps on the stairs, or for someone to open the door, carrying answers.

Only, I’m not sure I’m gonna want to hear them.

29

PETYR

By the time I get home, I’m running on fumes. My body feels like it’s running on autopilot.

The house is quiet and I can smell the faint trace of antiseptic still clinging to my clothes. The scent mixes with iron and smoke, a reminder of the night I want to forget.

My shirt sticks to my skin. The fabric’s stiff with blood. Some is mine. Most is not.

My shoulder throbs, but it’s already numb from the adrenaline wearing off. All I want right now is a shower, something hot enough to burn off everything that’s still clinging to me.

We were lucky. Misha especially. I got him to a surgeon I know, someone who owes me a few favors. The kind of doctor who doesn’t ask questions. Who knows what the Bratva world is like.

She took one look at Misha and said it was a bad wound, but a clean one. The bullet passed straight through, no bone shards or artery nicks. Painful as hell, but not fatal.

Misha will be fine. He’s tougher than he looks, and he’s got that stubborn will to live I’ve seen in men who refuse to die, no matter how hard the world tries to kill them.

I’d be lying if I said the same about myself. Not the body—physically, I’ll heal—but the rest of it.

Tonight felt too familiar. The sound of gunfire, the heat in my chest, the smell of blood on my hands. It’s a pattern that never ends.

I move through the house slowly, careful not to wake anyone, though I know half the men are still bustling around after the chaos earlier. My boots leave faint marks on the tile, and I don’t care enough to wipe them away.

I head toward the kitchen for a glass of water before going upstairs. My shoulder burns, my muscles ache, and I just want to stand under running water until everything feels clean again. Until I stop seeing Feliks’s face when I close my eyes.

That image won’t leave me.Her brother.I killed her brother. Even if he was aiming for me and it was self-defense, the sting of that truth blares against my ribs like another bullet.

I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. I’m going to have to tell her eventually, but not yet. Maybe nothing tonight. I just need to rinse off the blood before I can face her.