“Oh Jesus, oh fuck,” one of the players chants as he and the rest of the players scramble to their feet and back up.
Adrian points a gun, first at Alex, then looping around the room.
“Put it away,” I order. “Get everyone out of here before the cops show. Use the back stairs. Now.”
I run to Nikolai’s side and crouch down. He’s still conscious, but he’s bleeding a lot. I throw his arm around my shoulders and struggle to bring us both to our feet.
“Don’t kill him,” I warn Oleg, who’s searching Alex’s unconscious form. Not that I have to tell him that. He doesn’t kill frivolously or without orders. “Leave him here for the Feds to take care of.” Oleg nods and helps Adrian herd the players out of the room.
Natasha’s flattened herself against the wall by the door, her green eyes wide, her face drained of color. “Wh-what happened?” she has the nerve to ask me.
“Move it. You’re coming with me,” I tell her harshly, lifting my chin toward the door.
Her fingers scramble on the handle, and then she throws the door open wide, sending a skittish glance over her shoulder as she scoots out.
“Elevator.” I say the word like a curse. Like I could punish her with the tone of my voice alone.
I can’t believe what she’s done to me.
My brother’s been shot.
All because of her. Because I trusted her.
She presses the button over and over again until the elevator arrives, and the three of us step in.
Nikolai’s steps are clumsy, and he’s heavy on my shoulder, but he’s awake, a goofy grin on his face. “I can’t believe that fucker shot me,” he mutters as the elevator door shuts. “I seriously doubt that was the procedure he learned at Quantico.”
“Why… I don’t understand,” Natasha whimpers.
“Shut up,” I snap. “Now listen to me. You are going to get on the other side of Nikolai and wrap your arm around his waist. Put your purse in front of the blood. When those doors open, you’re going to walk out with a big fucking smile on your face, like we’re all going out to eat together. Got it?”
“Yeah.” Her face is pale, and she sounds breathless. “I’ve got it.”
The doors ding and open. “So, where are we going to dinner?” Nikolai asks conversationally, his accent stronger with the pain.
I hear sirens in the distance. No doubt someone called the cops when they heard the gunshot.
“What are you in the mood for?” I walk as swiftly as I can without drawing attention to us. The moment we’re outside, I detach myself from Nikolai and go running for the Land Rover. Natasha is smart enough to keep walking as best she can, holding up Nikolai’s weight.
As soon as I get to my Mercedes SUV, I jump in and start it up, backing out and straight down the aisle until Natasha and Nikolai get close in the rearview mirror.
I stop, hop out and throw open the door to the backseat. “Get in,” I order Natasha.
She climbs in, and I help Nikolai, which is hard because he’s starting to go limp.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter as I finally manage to get him in. He doesn’t stay upright on the seat, though. He spills over toward Natasha.
I yank my shirt off and ball it up. “Hold this to his wound,” I bark. I roll Nikolai a little to check his back for blood.
“Okay, the bullet went through. That’s good,” I tell Nikolai. “Hold pressure on this side, too.”
Natasha takes my shirt from me. “Do you have a first aid kit in here? With gauze? I need to pack the wound.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Natasha would be capable in a pinch. Her mother’s a homebirth midwife, and she’s been unofficially assisting since she was a kid. I’m too angry to admire it now, though.
I reach under the front seat and pull out the med kit, opening it up. I toss the roll of gauze on the seat beside Nikolai.
“Pack it.” I send her a narrowed gaze. “He dies, you die,” I tell her flatly.
The color drains from her face, and she stares at me with wide frightened eyes. I register her fear as pain in my own body. A sick twist of my gut for being such a cock-sucker to someone I care about. Threatening her life is unforgivable. Something we won’t recover from.
But there is no we. That’s what I have to remember.
There is no we now, nor can there ever be.
“Little harsh, no?” Nikolai mumbles right before I slam the door.
3
Natasha
He dies, you die.
Dima just threatened my life. Dima, the bratva bad boy I thought was the nicest of the guys in the Kremlin. I should have listened to my mom. She tried to tell me this. These men are dangerous, and they won’t hesitate to kill anyone who threatens them.
I don’t know how I could’ve thought there was potential between us.
I steal a glance at his twin Nikolai.
He raises his brows. “He’s pissed,” he says with exaggerated awe, like he’s surprised, too. Like Dima never gets mad.
I rip open the package of gauze with trembling fingers while he holds the balled up shirt in place over his wound. Every part of me trembles—lips, chin, fingers, knees.
I’m not even sure what happened back there. Alex shot Nikolai! —that’s what happened. I quickly unravel a length of gauze and use my teeth to rip it, then move Nikolai’s hand and the combined bloody shirts—his and Dima’s—to stuff the gauze in the wound the way I learned in my training to be an EMT. Before I realized it was too much trauma for me to stomach and set my sights on becoming a naturopath instead. I repeat the action for the exit wound.
I hear the ringing of a phone coming through the speakers. Dima’s making a hands-free call through the car’s system.
“Da?”
“Nikolai’s shot,” Dima clips. “He needs a doctor and blood. Type O positive. I can donate if you can’t get any.”
“Take him to the clinic—I’ll get Blake to meet you there. What happened?” I recognize Ravil’s terse voice. He’s all-business.
In the rear-view mirror, I see a muscle in Dima’s jaw tick. “Natasha brought a fucking Fed to the game.”
A wave of ice cold washes over me, and my shaking increases five-fold. The parts of the puzzle my shocked brain hadn’t been able to fit together suddenly snap into place.
Alex is a federal agent.
He used me to get to Nikolai.
God, I am such an idiot! How could I be so stupid?
“What?” Ravil asks in disbelief. “Blayd’. So what happened?”
“He was a rookie. Spoke Russian, that’s probably why they put him on us. He panicked when he got made and took a pot-shot before we had a chance to disarm him. I told Oleg to leave him there for the Feds to deal with.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. Knocked out.”
“Why was Natasha at game?” Ravil asks, dropping the article.
Dima punches the dashboard, and I gasp at the crunch of hard plastic and the violence behind the gesture. “My fault. She asked and… I don’t know. I couldn’t say no because it was Natasha.”
“Blyad’, Dima.” Ravil sounds disgusted.