Page 43 of Toxic Salvation (Krayev Bratva #2)

KOVAN

I was fifteen the first time I dodged a bullet.

The whistle came first—a sharp note in the night air. Then the breeze against my cheek, so close I could taste copper and gunpowder on my tongue.

The whole thing lasted maybe two seconds. By the time my brain caught up to what had happened, I was already diving behind cover, adrenaline pumping through my system.

No fear. Just pure electric rush.

That night taught me something important: If you’re going to get shot at, skip the terror part. Fear makes you hesitate. Hesitation gets you killed.

I carried that lesson with me for twenty years. It’s kept me alive through more firefights than I can count. Made me the kind of pakhan who leads from the front instead of hiding behind a desk.

But tonight, crouched behind shipping containers in our newest arms warehouse while bullets tear chunks out of concrete around me, I’m not feeling invincible.

I’m feeling fucking terrified.

Not for myself, though. I stopped caring about my own mortality years ago. But now, I have Vesper at home, nearly six months pregnant with my son. I have Luka, who calls me Papa and trusts me to keep him safe. I have a family that depends on me coming home alive.

And that changes everything.

“Call for backup!” I shout at Osip, who’s pressed against the crate beside me, reloading his Glock.

“Already did. Pavel’s en route with reinforcements. Should be here in five.” Osip grins as he slams a fresh magazine into place. The idiot actually looks like he’s enjoying himself.

Must be nice to only have one life to worry about.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I warn him.

But he’s already moving, vaulting over our cover with his gun blazing. The fool has completely exposed himself in the open space between shipping containers.

“Osip, get down!”

Too late. I can see the motion from the shadows—someone has a clean shot at his back. Without thinking, I throw myself into the open, tackling Osip to the concrete just as the bullet whines past where his head used to be.

We hit the ground hard. Osip’s helmet cracks against the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and debris.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snarl.

He coughs, spitting grit. “Since when do we play it safe?”

“Since I have people depending on me to come home.”

Osip’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline, but he doesn’t get a chance to comment. More gunfire erupts from overhead.

“Stay down and cover me,” I order.

But Osip’s already on his feet again, charging toward the nearest shooter. The man has balls, I’ll give him that. No brains to speak of, but plenty of balls.

I sight down my barrel, picking off targets as Osip draws their fire. One shooter drops. Then another. But there’s a third one creeping along the eastern wall, trying to flank us.

“Behind you!” I call out.

Osip spins, but the angle’s all wrong. The shooter has him lined up.

I take the shot myself. Clean hit to the shoulder. The man stumbles but doesn’t go down. His rifle swings toward Osip, finger already squeezing the trigger.

My gun clicks empty.

“Fuck.”

I drop the useless weapon and sprint forward. The gunman fires just as I slam into Osip, driving us both to the ground. Hot fire tears through my left arm, but Osip’s alive.

That’s what matters.

“Shit, were you hit?” Osip scrambles to his knees, blood on his face from where we hit the concrete.

“Just a graze.” I press my right hand against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and sticky. “I’m fine.”

Headlights flood the warehouse as vehicles screech to a halt outside. Car doors slam. Pavel’s voice rips through the space, barking orders.

“About damn time,” Osip mutters.

I tear a strip from my shirt and tie it around my arm, pulling tight to slow the bleeding. By the time Pavel and his team finish mopping up, I’m on my feet again.

“How many did we lose?” I ask.

“None of ours. But we’ve got two wounded—Vlad took one in the leg, Misha’s got a shoulder wound.” Pavel’s gaze drops to my improvised bandage. “Make that three wounded.”

I ignore him. “What about their people?”

“Six shooters, all dead. Tried to grab one but he ate his own bullet before we could question him.”

Of course he did. Ihor’s not taking any chances with loose ends.

“Someone get those lights working,” I order.

“Can’t. They fried the electrical panel.”

Grimacing, I walk over to the line of bodies. All of them are young, maybe early twenties. Hired muscle, not career criminals. Probably promised more money than they’d ever seen to hit one of our warehouses.

“Ko.” Pavel appears at my elbow. “You need to get that arm looked at.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. And if Vesper finds out you got shot and didn’t go to a hospital, she’ll have my head.” He crosses his arms. “You’re going. End of discussion.”

Osip chuckles from the shadows. “Domestic life has really changed you, brother.”

“Shut up.”

But he’s not wrong. Six months ago, I would have wrapped this wound with duct tape and called it good.

When did I become the kind of man who worries about his pregnant girlfriend’s reaction to his work injuries?

When did I become the kind of man who throws himself in front of bullets for his friends because he can’t stand the thought of explaining their deaths to his family?

“Fine,” I growl. “We’ll go to the hospital. But we avoid the pediatric ward. Vesper’s working tonight and I don’t want her to?—”

My phone vibrates with a text from Vesper. Are you fucking serious?

I look up at Pavel. “You fucking didn’t.”

He holds up his hands in self-defense. “I had no choice, brother. She’s scary when she’s pregnant. And she’s a doctor, too. Figured she should know her boyfriend got shot.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Get in line. She already called dibs.”

Vesper’s waiting for us in the emergency bay when we arrive. Even at two in the morning, exhausted from a double shift, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her scrubs are wrinkled, her hair frizzing in its ponytail, but her blue eyes are sharp and alert.

And absolutely furious.

“Oh my God!” She rushes toward me as I climb out of the SUV, her gaze immediately locking onto the blood soaking my shirt.

“It looks worse than it is.”

“Is that a gunshot wound?”

“Listen, baby?—”

“Don’t you ‘baby’ me. You didn’t tell me you had something dangerous planned tonight.”

“There was nothing planned,” I growl. “We got an alert about a break-in at one of the warehouses. Osip and I went to check it out.”

“Alone?”

“We had backup.”

“How many men?” She looks past me to Osip, who suddenly finds the asphalt fascinating. “How many, Kovan?”

“Vesper, maybe we can discuss this after?—”

She holds up a finger to cut me off, then points toward the doors. “You’re coming inside with me right now, so I can examine that wound properly.”

“I really don’t need?—”

The look she gives me is scathing. “If you expect to share my bed tonight or any other night ever again, you’ll follow me. Now.”

I glance back at Osip and Pavel, both of whom are trying very hard not to smile.

“Traitors,” I mutter, then follow my very pregnant, very angry girlfriend into the hospital.

She leads me to an empty examination room and shuts the door. The click of the lock sounds ominous.

“You know,” I remark, “you’re really hot when you’re pissed off.”

Her expression doesn’t soften one bit. She’s examining my makeshift bandage, her touch clinical and impersonal. “Is the bullet still in there?”

“No. It just grazed. It’s really not that bad, Vesper.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She starts pulling supplies from drawers—gauze, antiseptic, suture kit. “Take off your shirt.”

I comply, watching her face as she gets her first good look at the damage. The wound is clean, but I’ve lost more blood than I initially thought.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I already told you. Security alert, break-in, gunfight.”

“Ihor’s people?”

“Has to be,” I say. “No one else would be stupid enough to hit us directly.”

“You should have waited for more backup.” She starts cleaning the wound, her movements efficient but not particularly gentle.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone there.”

“You’re at war!” The crack in her voice is the first sign of her inner turmoil. “You can’t just walk into situations hoping for the best. You have responsibilities now.”

I wince as she applies antiseptic to the wound. For someone who claims to love me, she’s not being very careful about causing pain.

“Easy there, Doc. That arm is still attached to the rest of me.”

“Let me guess—you tried to play hero and ended up with this wound?”

“These things happen in my line of work.”

“Well, they shouldn’t!” She throws the bloody gauze into the trash. “We’re having a baby in three months. You can’t keep taking these kinds of risks.”

“We’ve discussed this. I have to lead from the front. I can’t ask my men to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

She turns away from me, but not before I catch the shine of tears in her eyes.

“Hey.” I reach for her hand. “I was careful tonight. More careful than I’ve ever been in a firefight. That’s because of you.”

“And yet you still got shot.”

“It’s a superficial wound. And if I hadn’t taken that bullet, Osip would be dead right now.”

She freezes. “You took a bullet meant for someone else?”

“I knew it wouldn’t be fatal.”

“You knew?!” Her voice climbs an octave. “Did you have a conversation with the bullet? Make some kind of deal?”

“Vesper—”

“You’re going to need to stay very still while I suture this.” She picks up the needle, her hands steady despite her obvious emotion. “Do you want local anesthetic?”

“You’re the only anesthetic I need.”

She gives me a look of pure irritation. “Stop trying to make this romantic. A woman having to patch up her boyfriend’s gunshot wound is not romantic.”

“This is my life,” I say quietly. “This is what you signed up for when you chose to be with me.”

“I know that.” Her voice is small now, the anger bleeding out of it. “But knowing something intellectually and living it are two different things.”

I catch her hand, forcing her to look at me. “I’m not going to die on you. Not now, not ever.”

“You can’t promise that.” Her chin starts to tremble. “We have fake passports ready for our friends, Kovan. That’s not normal.”

“Being prepared doesn’t mean we’re expecting the worst.”

She leans against my good shoulder and starts to cry—quiet, desperate sobs that wreck me completely. “You scared me,” she whispers.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I can’t raise our children alone.”

“You won’t have to.” I stroke her hair with my good hand. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

It’s a lie, of course. In my world, promises about staying alive are just pretty words. But she needs to hear it, and I need to say it.

Even if we both know better.

After a moment, she pulls back and wipes her eyes, transforming back into Dr. Fairfax. “This is going to sting,” she warns.

The first suture slides through my skin, neat and precise. She works in silence, occasionally dabbing away blood, scarcely breathing.

“How many stitches?” I ask as she’s nearing the end.

“Seven for the entry wound, five for the exit. You were lucky—it missed everything important.”

“Told you I was careful.”

“Getting shot is not careful, Kovan.”

“Getting shot instead of killed is careful.”

She finishes the last suture and covers both wounds with sterile bandages. “There. Try not to rip these out by doing something stupid.”

“Define ‘stupid.’”

“Anything involving guns, knives, explosives, or people who want you dead.”

“That’s going to severely limit my social activities.”

She doesn’t smile. “I’m serious. No heavy lifting, no sudden movements, and definitely no more heroics for at least two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Vesper, I can’t?—”

“It wasn’t a question, Kovan.”

I scowl at her. “You’re really going to make me sit on the sidelines while my men handle Ihor?”

“Your men can handle things for two weeks. You’re more valuable to them alive than dead.”

She starts cleaning up the supplies. But I can see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders, the way she keeps touching her belly unconsciously.

“When’s the last time you slept?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She keeps working. “I caught a few hours yesterday morning.”

“Jesus, Vesper. You’re six months pregnant and working double shifts. That can’t be good for the baby.”

“The baby is fine. I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.” She finishes packing up and turns back to me, her expression softer now. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I love that you protect the people you care about. It’s one of the things that made me fall for you in the first place.”

“But?”

“But I need you to protect yourself, too. For me. For the baby. For Luka.” She steps closer, her hands coming up to frame my face. “We’re your family now. That has to mean something.”

It means everything. More than she knows.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Two weeks. I’ll let Pavel and Osip handle field operations.”

“Promise?”

“Swear.”

This one, I might actually be able to keep.

She kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of relief. When she pulls back, she’s almost smiling. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”