The bandage on his forehead covers his scars as he lies entirely still, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest. I sit at his bedside, waiting for someone to show up, to recognize him and sit with him. Reaching out, I rest my hand on his arm.
His skin is cool to the touch. I pull the blanket up higher to help keep him warm. “Hang in there,” I whisper. Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve to die or to be left for dead.
I glance at my phone. I could text my niece and ask her to let me know ifBearded Bad Boycomes online, not that it matters. What would I even tell the thirteen-year-old? I witnessed a man nearly dying, and I recognized he shares the same tattoo with an online player.
I’ll sound insane.
Bearded Bad Boynever did tell me where he was from.
TWO
Dmitri
Six Weeks Later
My head really fucking hurts. I’m not talking about a slight headache that requires a couple of pills to dull.
The pain is immense, like someone took a jackhammer to my head and then decided to drill into my skull.
The smell of antiseptic permeates my senses first. I can’t help but groan as my eyes lazily open to realize I’m in a hospital somewhere.
Her bright blue eyes widen as she stands from the seat at my bedside.
“You’re awake,” she says. Her eyes widen in surprise, and her complexion turns ghastly. She has a book in her hands, the binding worn.
“Do I know you?” Am I supposed to recognize the brunette? I swear if I’ve met her, I’d remember. It doesn’t matter the headache and pain ripping through my skull. I’d never forget her face or body.
She gives a sheepish grin. “I found you in the forest. Shot.”
I grimace and reach up to my head. There’s no bandage. No pain, not like I’m expecting. “How long have I been here?” I get the distinct impression it’s more than a couple of hours.
“About six weeks,” she whispers, and glances away.
And she stayed with me the entire time?
Why?
“I’ve been reading to you,” she says sheepishly, folding her other arm over the book to hide what she’s been reading.
“What book?” I ask. I don’t recall hearing her voice, let alone anything else about her, and I’d recognize her if we’d met any other time. She’s young and delicate, and there’s an innocence to her. I reach up to touch where I’d been shot, and my fingers graze the scar.
Her hands are delicate and soft as she brings my arm down, although my head doesn’t hurt. “And you are?” I ask.
“Oh right, Sadie West,” she says, and smiles. The girl has the most irresistible smile and dimples that give her the perfect girl-next-door vibe.
The things I could do to ruin little miss perfect.
“And you are?” she asks, waiting for me to answer.
I clear my throat and stall.
Someone wants me dead. I can’t remember who shot me or what happened. I work for the Russian Bratva, and I had been ordered to murder Anton and his girlfriend, Savannah. Luka had been with me in the car. But everything after that is behind a veil, kept away from my memory.
“You didn’t have any identification on you,” Sadie says.
“Can’t remember.” I try not to give an ounce of indication that I’m lying. “It’s all a blur.”
“I should let the doctor know that you’re awake.” She’s cute, with a nice, pert ass I examine while she heads out of the hospital room.