Page 68 of Ripping the Odds

I kept my eyes closed when I answered, “It's too empty when you’re not there.”

“Sorry. I”ll make sure it doesn’t happen often.” He leaned in, kissing my lips. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“M’kay,” I said, but didn’t move.

He snickered. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“Nope. I’ve got it.”

He stood, and I sat up reluctantly, stretching my arms high over my head. Zak picked up my prosthesis from the coffee table and handed it to me. Putting Mathilda on had become as easy as tying a shoe, only not nearly as fast. Once I was done, I pushed up off the couch. That’s when I got a good look at him. His clothes were wrinkled, his eyes were red, and…

“Oh my god, you’re hurt.” I shrieked.

“I’m not.” He stilled my hands that had begun searching for a wound.

“There’s blood all over your shirt.”

“It’s not mine.”

“Whose is it?”

“Dimi’s. And before you freak out, he’s fine.”

How could he be so calm? Half of his shirt was caked in his brother's blood. Maybe that was normal by Bratva standards, but not mine. Not even close.

“That’s way too much blood for him to be fine, Zak.”

“It was a through-and-through to his shoulder, baby. He barely needed stitches.”

“He was shot? By a gun?” My voice went up two octaves. “Are you freaking kidding me right now, Zakhar Vlaschenko?”

“Pru, look at me.” Zak cupped both my cheeks and bent his knees so we were eye-to-eye. “I swear to you, Dimi’s okay. He’s more pissed than hurt.”

“Where is he?”

“Uh, his house?”

“Tell him to come here.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? Go get him.”

He laughed, actually laughed. I knew I was spiraling, but my mind was consumed with worry. Dimitri had a hole in his body that he didn’t have when they left. What. The. Hell? When he didn’t immediately move toward the front door, I did, leaving his amused ass behind. For being half asleep, I walked surprisingly fast. Zak’s boots thumped against the wooden floor as he jogged to catch up to me. He took my elbow and brought me to a stop.

“I’ll have him come over in the morning. Will that work?”

I glared at him for a moment, then surrendered. Only because of the time. “Fine.”

“Appreciate it, baby. Now if you don’t mind, can we go to bed? I’m beat.”

“Fine.” I reversed my steps, grabbed my pillow off the couch, then stomped—as much as I could wearing Mathilda—to the staircase. They looked daunting from the bottom, especially in the wee hours of the morning when exhaustion and irritation were riding me hard. The elevator was an option, but I’d stopped using it after Anthony and Kayla left. I didn’t need it anymore, so why waste the electricity?

“Do you want me to carry you?”

“I’m good.”

And just like that, my righteous indignation evaporated into a puddle of mush. Moments ago, I was being a total bitch, and he still offered to carry me up the steps. Gah. This man. Hell, I didn’t even know why I was mad at him to begin with. It wasn’t like he was the one who pulled the trigger. Speaking of…