Page 2 of Merciless Bratva Soldier

The door. Right.

I drag my eyes away from him, get my keys out, and fit one into the deadbolt. The old keypad starts beeping as soon as I open it. Rosa, the owner, bought this system when I was in high school and I have thirty seconds to punch in the code. No cameras. Four numbers and a beep that goes straight through my back teeth.

I move beside him and duck under his right arm. He braces his hand on my shoulder and leans on me without being told.

His coat brushes my cheek. Leather, wet wool, and warm musk beneath it. I inhale and take note before I catch myself.

Really, Vera?

My knees bend under his weight. I plant my feet and reach for the keypad with my free hand. I’ve been typing these numbers every day for nine years, and tonight, I almost get them wrong.

The beeping stops, and we shuffle inside, his hip brushing mine, leaving behind a touch that my brain latches onto.

“Lock it,” he says through gritted teeth.

He’s close enough that I feel the words against my hair. I look up. In the dim light of the back room, his eyes are storm-gray with black swirling through them. Ink climbs out of his collar and along the side of his neck, shifting when he swallows.

“Whoever is coming for you needs to get in.” My voice is thicker than the moment warrants, and I clear my throat.

His jaw tightens. I wait for an argument, but instead, he lets me guide him into the staff room. Three lockers, a scarred table, two chairs; it’s small but functional, and with his weight on my shoulder and the blood seeping through his clothes, I don’t even try to see it through his eyes. Beyond the swinging door is the kitchen where I spent half the evening testing Galina’s honey cake.

We’re not going in there.

Her recipe notebook lies open on the table beside my cold tea, but there’s no time to stow it out of reach now. I look at the chairs, then at him.

“The floor,” I say. “Against the lockers.” Far enough away from the notebook to prevent it from getting ruined.

He lowers himself slowly, his right hand gripping the edge of the table. I keep my hand on his arm until he’s down, settled beside the low shelf where the clean aprons live.

“I’m going to open your coat,” I say.

He shakes his head and works the fastening with his right hand. I catch the edge when it slips from his fingers and ease it away from his side. His black shirt is soaked. Underneath his left hand, between his ribs and his hip bone, there’s a tear in the fabric.

I gather what I need: gloves from the first-aid kit, a clean bar towel folded into a thick pad. Then, I pull my phone from my apron and set it on the floor as I kneel beside him.

Blood is still oozing from the wound. Although his face is pale, his eyes meet mine the instant I look up.

“Take your hand away when I say.” I peer into those moody eyes, and something flutters inside my chest. I swallow hard. “Now.”

He lifts his hand. Blood fills the lines tattooed over his knuckles.

I put the pad over the wound, lock my elbow, and lean the heel of my hand into it. The clock above the lockers says eleven fifty-two.

He makes no sound. His jaw sets, and his breath releases slowly.

“Was it a knife?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Just the one?”

“Just the one.”

“Anything else hurt?”

“My pride.”

My eyes meet his. He looks entirely serious.