Page 43 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
Tears escape the corners of my eyes, and I blow heavy breaths through my nose. Finally, he removes the cloth. When his hand leaves my mouth, I suck in a gulping lungful of air.
“Shit, that hurt.”
He puts down the cloth and picks up something else, placing it on the edge of the bed. I make the mistake of looking. “Where the hell did you get a sewing kit on a train?”
“It was in an older lady’s handbag.”
“You stole from an old lady?”
He lifts a brow, a piece of thread hanging from between his lips. “I’m sure she won’t die if she loses a button, Adelina.”
“The jokes just keep coming.”
“You on the other hand.”
Wait, what? “You think I’m going to die?” I struggle to sit up.
He forces me back down. “No, but if I don’t sew that up, you’ll either lose enough blood that I’ll be carrying you off this train, or it’ll get infected. If I have to take you to a hospital, you’ll be a sitting duck for the Elite.”
He’s abnormally forthcoming, so I decide to ask the question that’s been eating away at me ever since we left New York.
“What exactly is the Elite?” My breath seizes in my chest, and my entire body tenses when he comes toward me, a threaded needle in hand. “Wait. Give me that whiskey.”
He hands it to me with a confused look, and I take off the top and knock back a heavy swig. “You know that won’t actually help with the pain.”
“I don’t care.” I take another gulp before he takes it and resumes his position; ready to impale me.
“Breathe, malyshka.” I feel the prick of the needle, and my jaw tenses so hard I’m sure my teeth are about to crack. As soon as the pain abates, it starts again. It’s pure torture. “The Elite are the Russian Bratva’s assassins.” His gaze lifts from my shoulder to my face, checking I’m still awake no doubt, although I wish I weren’t. “They are trained from childhood to be killers, and they are the best in the world.”
Stab pull, stab pull. “You were one of them.” I grit out. It all makes sense.
He nods. “Una and I.”
“But now you aren’t.”
That tiny concentration line sinks between his brows. “The Elite were run by a man called Nicholai. He became obsessed with the idea of breeding perfect soldiers. Una had escaped, but she was always his favorite. He wanted her back, and he wanted her child.”
“That’s…” Sick. Twisted. Wrong on every level.
Another stab of pain, but it’s now all just blending, and I can’t feel the individual needle pricks, only the wall of agony.
“Nicholai took Una’s sister and her child. He tried to kill Nero. He would have never stopped,” Sasha says.
“You killed him?”
“She did.”
“And you remained loyal to her?”
“Of course. We were raised together. She’s like a sister to me.”
I can only imagine how deep that bond runs, raised without love or parents, only having each other. He finally ties off the thread, and I release a deep breath.
“So, are you like property to the bratva? Do they want you back?”
A troubled expression crosses his face. “No.”
There’s a beat of silence, and he picks up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewing the lid before he brings it toward me.
“No.” I back up and wince as the stitches pull in my shoulder.
“You’re being weak, Adelina.”
I still, glaring at him. “It fucking hurts!”
“You got shot. It’s supposed to.”
He pours the whiskey directly onto the stitched hole, and it’s all I can do not to scream. A low groan slips past my lips, and I swallow hard. When he’s done, he sticks a dressing over the wound. “Good. Now roll over.”
“What?”
“I’ve done the entrance wound. I need to do the exit.”
I shake my head. “Leave it. Just let me bleed.”
He scowls. “Don’t be such a baby.” He forcibly rolls me onto my side, and I really wish I hadn’t given him to okay to shoot me.
I can hear the low tones of Sasha’s voice through the fogginess of my mind.
“I told you, I can’t come back yet,” he says in a hushed whisper. There’s a pause and all I can hear is the background hum of the train gliding along the tracks. “You know where my loyalty lies, but I can’t leave her.” He must be on the phone. I know he’s talking about me, and I’m suddenly very awake, listening intently. “No, Una. I won’t. You don’t need me.” He hisses, and I can sense his agitation. “I’m sorry you think that. I’m just…doing what I need to right now.” There’s a beat of silence, and I can picture his serious expression. “Fine. I’ll let you know.”
I wait for more, but he doesn’t speak again for several minutes.
“Una wants you in New York,” I say into the darkness, hating the fact that I’m forming a wedge between Sasha and his only family.
