Page 55 of Sexting His Assistant

“That’s not comforting.”

“It was not meant to comfort you.”

I press my palm harder against the wound, and he inhales once through his nose, short and controlled.

At least he is still capable of pain.

“You need doctors,” I say.

“I have one.”

“At a hospital.”

“At home.”

I stare at him. “You have a doctor at home?”

His eyes slide to mine. Even shot, even bleeding, even with half his shirt ruined and his jaw clenched against pain, he manages to look mildly bored by my shock.

“I have many things at home,” he says.

I laugh. It comes out closer to a broken breath. “Of course you do. Why did I ever think otherwise?”

He gives me a somber look.

The car cuts through the city, then turns away from the main roads into wider, quieter streets. The buildings thin. Gates get higher. Trees begin to appear, black against the bruised evening sky. I keep my hand on Luka’s shoulder the entire time, though my palm is slick with blood now and my stomach rolls every time I look at it.

I want him to do something human. Curse. Sweat. Admit it hurts. Tell me he is scared. But Luka Kazan only sits there in the dark, bleeding through his shirt, giving short instructions into his phone in Russian while the car speeds toward wherever men like him go when hospitals are too public.

When the gates finally appear, I forget to breathe for a different reason.

I’ve heard about his house from Misha, though my brother never calls it a house. He calls it the estate, usually with the tone of someone describing a military compound that happens to have chandeliers.

He wasn’t exaggerating.

The gates are black iron, high and severe, set between stone pillars with cameras tucked into places most people would never notice. Two guards step out before we even stop, weapons visible beneath dark coats. The car rolls through after a brief exchange, and the driveway curves inward through an avenue of winter-dark trees.

Then the house appears.

No. Not house. It’s a freaking mansion, probably where Batman lives.

It rises at the end of the drive like something built by a man who wanted privacy more than beauty and somehow got both. Pale stone, tall windows, sharp rooflines, wings spreading out on either side, all of it lit from below so the building seems to glow against the night.

I press my bloodied hand tighter against Luka’s shoulder and stare.

I’ve wanted to see this place for years. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

Misha used to mention it casually. Dinner at Luka’s. Meeting at Luka’s. Stayed at Luka’s until dawn. As if Luka’s home was just a place men went to drink vodka and discuss business, not a fortress on private land with more security than most embassies.

I was never invited.

Misha always said it was not a place for me.

At the time, I thought he meant because I was too young.

Now, as the car pulls up at the front entrance and two armed men move toward us before the engine cuts, I understand he meant because it is Luka’s world without the corporate mask.

And I have arrived in it with his blood under my fingernails.