My bravado lasts until I get into the kitchen and see the extent of damage done to Anton’s face. Peter wasn’t joking about breaking every bone; he didn’t succeed, but he made a very good attempt. With the violence flaring up so suddenly, I didn’t have a chance to process the stunning brutality of the fight, but as I work to put Anton’s nose back in place, my hands begin to shake, the adrenaline spike aftermath hitting me as hard as if I’d been the one in the fight.
I’ve become complacent in the last few weeks, let all the domesticity lull me into forgetting what Peter and his men are. This wasn’t a drunken brawl at a bar, where someone might land a lucky hit or two. Peter is a trained assassin, and he went after his friend with the intent of inflicting serious damage. If I hadn’t broken up the fight, someone could’ve gotten badly hurt—killed, even.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as Anton winces at the pain of my ministrations. “I’m so sorry about this.”
“It’s okay.” His voice turns nasal as I stuff cotton into his nostrils to stop the bleeding. “Was bound to happen; bastard’s too crazy about you.” There’s no rancor in his tone; if anything, he sounds amused by his friend’s attempt to maim him out of misplaced jealousy.
“That’s right,” Peter growls, coming to stand next to me. “So do not fucking stare at her. Ever. Got it?”
To my shock, Anton’s swollen mouth curves in a bloody smile. “Got it, you crazy fucking asshole.”
I stop what I’m doing, my gaze swinging incredulously from one man to the other. Am I hallucinating, or did they just make up?
Sure enough, Peter slaps his friend’s shoulder and turns to Ilya, who’s perched on a barstool next to us, holding an ice pack against his lip. “Same goes for you and”—he gives Yan, who just joined us, a dark glare—“you.”
Both brothers nod, and Ilya says, “Got it. She’s all yours.”
Ignoring that atavistic statement, I finish taping Anton’s broken nose, give him ice packs to apply all over his face, and reach for his shirt to examine his ribcage.
“I’m fine there,” he says nasally, stopping me before I can lift the shirt more than an inch. With a wary look at Peter, he adds, “You can take a look at Ilya now, if you want.”
I frown but turn to Ilya as suggested. “Let me see this,” I say, moving the ice pack away from his lip. “Did you get hit anywhere else in the head?”
“No, just this,” Ilya says, wincing as I feel around his swollen jaw.
“All right,” I say when I conclude my examination. “You don’t have a concussion, but you still have to take it easy. Blows to the head aren’t good for your brain—just ask all the NFL players.”
“Yes, Dr. Cobakis.” Ilya smiles as much as his split lip allows. “I’ll be careful.”
I smile back at him, ignoring a snort from his brother, and then turn to Peter, who still appears to be in a dark mood.
“Let me see this,” I say, tugging him down on another barstool so I can reach the top of his ear. “Looks like you scraped some skin off there.”
Peter sits still, letting me clean and bandage the scrape before examining him for more minor injuries. By the time I’m done, my hands are steady again, the familiar work lessening the lingering shock from the explosion of violence.
Unfortunately, my newfound calm doesn’t last long. The second I put away all the medical supplies, Peter hops off the barstool and bends down to pick me up. Ignoring my startled squeak and the guys’ ribald wolf calls, he lifts me into his arms and claims my mouth with a deep, fiercely hungry kiss.
Then, holding me pressed against his chest like the prize of war he believes me to be, he heads toward the stairs.
35
Peter
Sara squirms in my arms as I carry her up the stairs, her pale face flushed—presumably with anger and embarrassment. “Let me down,” she whispers furiously as soon as we reach the second floor. “Peter, put me down right now.”
I don’t put her down until we enter our bedroom. I’m still high on bloodlust, the adrenaline from the fight making my heart pump in a hard, furious rhythm. Anger and primal jealousy roil my insides, and underneath it all is a deep, demanding hunger, a need to take and claim her, to make her mine so completely she’ll never smile at another man again.
I know what I’m feeling is irrational, verging on pathological, but seeing her tonight in this dress—this red, tight, and way-too-low-cut dress—made me lose whatever semblance of rationality I possessed. Over the past few weeks, I’ve put up with the guys’ occasional glances in her direction, with their mealtime competition for her attention and their not-so-secret food requests. But what I saw in Anton’s eyes tonight was a mirror image of my own lust for Sara, and that I could not let slide.