I scanned for space for the short Indian man I needed to save his life. “Where’s Amit?”
“Two minutes out,” Filip answered.
Addison climbed onto the table, straddled Vasilije, and pressing both hands on his neck. He groaned in agony. “Fuck, Addison.”
“What’s your blood type?” she demanded. His eyes blinked and rolled, making her turn her gaze toward his brother. “Luka?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
My heart lurched. “Doesn’t matter. I’m O negative.”
Her focus flew to me. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” My second paternity test in America, when the pathologist had discovered I was O negative, she’d lectured me non-stop about how lucky I was to be a universal donor, and the gift I could give. I’d sat in the chair, feeling anything but lucky that Sergey Petrov was my father.
Headlights flashed through the front window, and Luka sprinted to the door.
Time decelerated.
I stood blood-soaked at the table beside Filip and Luka, watching as Addison and Amit worked to clamp the bleeding and stitch the wound closed. When Amit announced the bleed was stopped, Addison grabbed his medical bag and set her sights on me.
I sank down on the couch in the living room and pushed up my sleeve. She wasn’t yet a doctor, but she moved like this was the hundredth time she’d taken blood from me and not the first. After the prep, she slid the needle easily into my vein and set the line over the side of the couch so it could drip into a collection bag.
As she pulled off the rubber gloves, I grabbed her wrist with my free hand. “I need you to tell me he’s going to be okay.” She looked down at my fingers wrapped around her. My grip was ferocious. “He’s my . . .”
My partner? My muse? My . . . other half?
I couldn’t explain it, and went with something simple. “He’s mine.”
There was understanding in her expression as she set her hand on top of mine and squeezed gently. “He’s going to be a lot better with your help.”
“Thank you.” My voice was barely a whisper. I released her, and she left me, returning to assist Amit.
Would she ever know that Vasilije’s wound came from the same man who’d taken her family?
I sat alone in the living room and heard music in my head. A sweet adagio piece that could only be described as a love theme. If I got a chance, I’d write it and replace the Scherzo. It was a better representation of how I felt about him.
After Amit pulled the line from my arm, Luka appeared with a glass of water, a bag of pretzels he’d pulled from the pantry, and a wet washcloth. I scrubbed Vasilije’s blood from my skin as best I could while I told his brother the highlights of the night. I left the big things for Vasilije. I didn’t feel like it was my story to tell.
“He’s awake,” Addison said, appearing at the edge of the living room. “He’s asking for her.”
I was woozy as I got to my feet, but didn’t know if it was the blood loss, or the evening’s effect. Everything had changed.
My father was dead.
Goran Markovic was dead.
And if he survived, Vasilije Markovic would rise to power with me at his side.
He was still on the dining room table, but they’d brought in pillows and blankets, propping him up. He was shirtless, but his color was back. A white bandage was wrapped around his neck. Even in this state, he looked intimidating and like himself.
“You look like hell,” he said.
I wanted to smile, but couldn’t. “So do you.”
His voice was commanding. “Come here.”
I moved one foot, then the other, until I was beside the edge of the table. I was close enough I could touch him if I wanted to. His head swung away from me so he could gaze at the ladder on the other side of the table. An IV bag hung off the top with barely any of my blood left in it.
Vasilije gave me a fake scowl. “Luka said that’s Russian blood going in me.”
The tension in my body broke. It shattered into a billion pieces and I laughed, feeling twenty pounds lighter. He was going to be okay. Back to his regular asshole self.
“I like your laugh,” he said abruptly. “Maybe you’ll do it more often now.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I will.”
“And maybe I love you.”
My breath caught. “If you had a heart.”
“I do. It’s fucking pumping Russian blood through me right now.”
I leaned over the table, set a hand on his cheek, and whispered it just before I kissed him. “And now we’re really the same.”
41
Vasilije
Oksana drummed her fingers on the tabletop, and the muscle along my jaw ticked. She knew I hated that shit, but I stayed quiet for once. She was nervous.
And Konstantine Petrov was fucking late.