My overworked shoulder burns and my bruised ribs ache as Ilya leans on me—my bulletproof vest stopped two bullets during our escape—but I don’t complain. I’m lucky. Fuck, all three of us are lucky. The shit definitely hit the fan, and it was spectacularly shitty. Between the banker’s mistress finding the revolver under the mattress and some vigilant guard hearing the gunshot, our way out of the compound was as rough as the way in was smooth.
On a scale of one to ten, this job ended up as a seven—not as bad as some, but definitely worse than others.
“Here, I got him,” Yan says, stepping in to support Ilya, and I step aside, letting him help his brother. Anton is coming out of the chopper behind us, but I pay him no attention. He caught some shrapnel from the grenade in his arm and shoulder, but I know he’ll be fine. Instead, I focus on the one person I can’t live without.
Sara.
My beautiful little songbird.
The wind is blowing her chestnut hair around her face, the sun highlighting shades of red within the rich brown waves. Her gaze is solemn as she stares at me, her face devoid of all expression. Yet I sense her longing, feel it deep within my bones.
She might not admit it, but she needs me.
She feels our connection, too.
Five long strides, and I scoop her up, lifting her into my arms as I crush my mouth to hers. Behind us, Anton lets out a low wolf whistle, but I tune him out. I don’t give a fuck what the guys think, don’t care that they see my weakness. Nothing matters but the way her slim arms fold around me, and the sweet, hot burn as I taste her lips. The minty flavor of her breath, the slick glide of her tongue, her warm Sara scent—I absorb it all, filling the emptiness inside me, pushing the darkness of my world away.
I don’t deserve her, but I have her.
She’s mine to love and cherish, mine to hold.
I don’t know how long I kiss her, but by the time I lift my head, the others are already entering the house. Reluctantly, I lower Sara to her feet, but I can’t bring myself to let go of her.
“Did you miss me, ptichka?” I ask softly, my hands resting on her supple waist. “Did you worry when I was gone?”
The sun brings out the greenish flecks in her soft hazel eyes, highlighting the turmoil within them. “I…” She licks her kiss-swollen lips. “I didn’t want to see you dead.”
“So you’ve said. But did you miss me?”
She gives me a tortured look, then pushes at my chest, stepping out of my hold. “I have to go,” she says tightly. “Ilya’s head won’t stitch itself.”
Turning, she runs into the house, and I follow, both disappointed and encouraged.
She’s not yet ready to admit it, but sooner or later, I will break her.
I will make her love me, no matter what it takes.
Sara follows the Ivanov twins into Ilya’s room, and I go into our bedroom to take a shower before I crash. I washed up on the plane, but I still feel the urge to scrub off all the violence and death.
I don’t want the ugliness of my world to taint Sara in any way.
It takes me over twenty minutes to shower and change—with the numbing effects of adrenaline wearing off, my sore muscles and bruised ribs object to every movement—and by the time I get to Ilya’s room, Sara is halfway done with his stitches. I stop in the doorway and watch her work, enjoying the tiny frown of concentration on her face. I had cameras installed in her office at the hospital, so I’m intimately familiar with that expression. She’d often wear it when taking notes on her patients or reading some new study that had come out in her field.
“Hand me that gauze,” she tells Yan when she’s done, and I grin at her authoritative tone. My little bird is in her element, and for the first time in weeks, I see a hint of her former spark. Yan was right to suggest this; not only is having Sara take care of Ilya’s wound infinitely safer for us, but it’s good for her mood, too.
Her movements are quick and efficient as she bandages Ilya’s head, and my teammate closes his eyes, looking blissed out as the painkillers we gave him earlier kick in.
“Any other injuries?” Sara asks, glancing over her shoulder at me and Yan.
“I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” Yan says. “I know Anton caught a little shrapnel, so you might want to take a look at him. I think he’s in his room.”
She nods and gets up. “What about you, Peter?”
I want her hands on me, so I shrug and promptly wince from the movement. “Just some scrapes and bruises,” I say, doing my best to sound stoic but in pain.