Peter growls a response in Russian, and Yan says something too, his tone coolly amused as Ilya shakes his head, grinning. A moment later, Anton storms outside, with Peter on his heels.
Frustrated, I round on the twins. “Where are they going?” I hate it when the guys switch to Russian to hide something from me. “What did you all say?”
“Peter wants to break every bone in Anton’s face, and I suggested he do so outside, so we don’t have to make costly repairs in the house,” Yan says, grinning as widely as his brother. “It seems they listened.”
“What? They’re going to fight?”
Horrified, I rush outside and am promptly greeted by the sound of fists striking flesh. Peter and Anton are rolling on the ground, arms and elbows swinging as they batter one another. Flecks of blood fly into the air as Peter lands a particularly brutal hit, and I gasp as I catch a glimpse of savage fury on his face.
They’re not sparring; this fight is for real.
“Stop them, please,” I beg Yan and Ilya, who came out to stand next to me. “They’re going to kill each other.”
“Nah.” Yan waves dismissively. “They’ll just break a few bones. We don’t have a major job until next month, so it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” Gritting my teeth, I turn to Ilya. “If you ever want shash-whatever again, you’ll stop this right now. If you don’t, I’m going to develop a lamb allergy.” I poke his massive chest with my finger. “Do you hear me?”
Yan bursts into laughter, but Ilya looks suitably worried. “All right, all right,” he mutters and starts toward the combatants.
I exhale in relief as he bravely wades into the fray, but neither Peter nor Anton respond well to his attempts to pry them apart. Before long, all three men are rolling on the ground, exchanging brutal blows, and when I turn to Yan, he holds up his hands, palms facing out.
“I’m not going near there,” he says, and I know he means it.
I’m on my own.
Desperate, I consider hosing them down with cold water, but decide to go for a more expedient solution.
“Help,” I yell at the top of my lungs and bend over, as though in pain. “Owww! Peter, help!”
It works even better than I expected. The men instantly spring apart, and Peter jumps to his feet, the fury on his face transforming into frantic worry as he rushes toward me. “What happened?” he demands, gripping my hands as his eyes scan me from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes, by you acting like a barbarian,” I snap, trying to pull away as he starts a full-blown pat-down. “Now let me go so I can see how badly you’ve damaged each other.”
His eyebrows pull together as he pauses. “You’re not hurt? You just wanted to stop the fight?”
“Of course. How would I get hurt?” I ignore Yan, who’s laughing so hard he can’t stand up straight, and head toward Anton and Ilya, who look much worse for the wear than Peter. Ilya has a split lip, and Anton’s face is already swelling up, his bleeding nose slightly off-center.
“Hey.” Peter catches my wrist before I can take more than two steps. “You’re going to treat them first?” He sounds so outraged I’m tempted to deny it—the last thing I want is to provoke another fight—but some devil makes me nod.
“They did not attack themselves.” I tug at my wrist in a futile attempt to get free. “And you don’t look hurt to me.”
If Peter thinks I’m going to reward caveman behavior with tender nursing, he’s very much mistaken.
His frown deepens, and he has the gall to look wounded as he releases my wrist. “I am hurt. See?” He tugs up his shirt to show me a red spot on his ribcage. “And this.” He displays the back of his right hand, where the knuckles are indeed beginning to look swollen.
Despite my anger, my healer’s instincts kick in. “Let me see.” Carefully, I feel around his torso—it’ll be a nasty bruise, but his ribs seem okay—and then turn my attention to his knuckles.
“Does this hurt?” I ask, pressing on the middle knuckle. Peter shakes his head, silver eyes gleaming, so I examine the rest of his hand. To my relief, I don’t feel any broken bones.
“You’ll be okay,” I say, then notice a bleeding scrape by his left ear. I’ll have to clean it in the house, where I have medical supplies, but first, I need to see about Anton’s nose and make sure Ilya didn’t get another concussion.
The guys have already gone inside, so I follow them in, ignoring Peter’s dark expression. I don’t understand what got into him. I know he’s possessive, but Anton is Peter’s friend, and as far as I can tell, he’s never acted inappropriately toward me. Nor have any of the others, though they’re virile, healthy men who’ve been without female companionship for months.