Page 121 of Twisted Proposal

At first, it hadn't felt real, watching Artem on the small screen wearing nothing but gray sweatpants, stalking through the halls, shooting men in the head like it was an action movie.

James Bond could never.

Artem hadn't even looked like himself. Usually, he was cold and distant, but still human. The man I watched was pure ice—showing no emotion, no hesitation, no empathy.

At least not until he encountered the man who had joked about raping me.

Artem shot him in the neck and left him to suffer. He'd done that for me—to protect me and inflict pain on someone who would have hurt me.

"I need to remove the bullet close to his shoulder now," Mikhail said, his voice pulling me back to the present.

The kitchen had transformed into a battlefield hospital. Bright lights had been set up, surgical tools laid out on clean towels, and what looked like a bag of blood hung from a coat rack someone had dragged in.

"You." Mikhail pointed at me. "Hold this retractor. Don't move it, don't flinch, don't even breathe funny. Just hold it exactly where I place it."

I nodded, both terrified and strangely calm now. I would do whatever it took to keep Artem alive.

Mikhail worked for hours. He patched the wound in Artem's side first. I flinched at the way the blood-stained bullet clinked in the metal surgical dish.

"Hand me that suture kit," he ordered, and with my bloody hands, I carefully picked up the plastic container that held a needle and thread, making sure not to touch the sterile equipment inside.

Mikhail worked diligently, barking orders at everyone else but using a softer tone when he spoke to me. I wondered if he could tell I was in shock, or if he simply didn't like screaming at women.

"Talk to him," Mikhail said as he began suturing Artem's side.

"What?"

"Talk to him. I don't know what the deal is between you two, but I know he cares about you, and right now, he needs a reason to live. I'm doing everything I can, but I need him to want to pull through. So for the love of God, talk to him."

"He doesn't?—"

"He does, and you know it. Look, if I was in his place right now, the only thing that would stop me from walking toward the light would be my wife's voice. So talk to him."

Talk to him. What was I supposed to say?

"Hey," I said, lacing my fingers through his as I moved to sit near his uninjured shoulder. "Thank you. I...I watched everything. That panic room you shoved me into has a monitor connected to the security system. I saw it all."

"Keep going," Mikhail urged, his gloved hands steady as he worked.

"You know, you were kind of hot," I said, surprising myself with a nervous laugh. "Those gray sweatpants left nothing to the imagination as you prowled those halls."

"Ew," one of the others said, followed by a sharp "ow" when someone—maybe Kostya—hit him.

I didn't take my eyes off Artem's face.

"You are so brave. I didn't think people could actually do things like that outside of action movies." My voice cracked. "I don't understand why you did it. Why not just stay in the panic room with me? Why did you have to go out there and take on all those men by yourself instead of waiting for backup?" There was an edge of anger that crept into my tone. I didn't care. I needed to know.

"That's right." One of the other men spoke up, their comment dripping with sarcasm. "Nag him. That will definitely help."

"It will," Mikhail said without looking up from his work. "Since you're single, cousin, and no one gives a fuck if you come home each night, let me explain something to you. A woman only nags you when she loves you. She only gets mad when you do dumb shit like catch a bullet if she wants you to live."

"That—" the other man started to argue, then snapped his mouth shut.

"You keep talking to him, sweetheart. If he's smart, he'll fight like hell to live. If not, then he wasn't strong enough for you anyway."

There was something disturbing in Mikhail's eyes and I would swear he saw through me completely.

I closed my eyes and brought my forehead down, pressing it to the back of Artem's hand.