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"Damien, please," she whispers, her voice a fragile thread in the growing darkness. "Stay with me."
And I try, God knows I try, because the thought of leaving her, even for the briefest of moments, is more terrifying than any bullet could ever be.
And then there's nothing but quiet.
Chapter 12
Mariya
"Easy, easy!" Oskar grunts, his brow furrowed with concern. "Don't jostle him too much."
Damien’s face is a mask of pain, but his jaw is set in a stubborn line as he wakes an hour later. "Stop fussing over me," he snaps. "I've had worse."
I hurry over, my heart hammering against my ribs. "So tell me, what happened," I say. “How did he get shot?”
"A disagreement," Damien says dryly, a grimace contorting his features as he tries to shrug off how he ended up in such a predicament.
Damien's gaze locks with mine, a moment of vulnerability flashing in his eyes before it's quickly veiled. "It's just a scratch."
His men are speaking rapidly in Russian, their voices a steady stream of concern and strategy, but I tune them out, focusing on the man in front of me.
"You should be in a hospital," I chastise him softly.
"And give our enemies a stationary target?" Damien retorts, a faint smirk playing on his lips despite the pallor of his skin. "I'll pass."
Damien's voice rises, cutting through the air, sharp and commanding. He's speaking to his men, issuing orders, trying to piece together the events that led to this moment. I can't help but admire his resilience and his ability to remain in control despite his injury. Everyone seems to be talking at once, trying to have their voice heard.
As I attend to his needs, ensuring he's hydrated and not going into shock, I can't help but feel a new bond forming between us. This is an intimacy of a different sort, not the kind I've daydreamed about but one born of necessity and survival. I realize, with a start, that I care about what happens to him—more than I should, perhaps.
I'm no stranger to taking care of the wounded, my father's political rallies often ended in scuffles and scrapes, but this is different. Damien isn't just some faceless protester; he's my husband, on paper, if not in truth.
Damien's voice slices through the commotion once more, authoritative and unforgiving despite the sheen of sweat on his brow.
"Listen to me," he barks at the men who have transformed the area outside his room into a makeshift command center. Check the cameras outside the restaurant. I want every angle reviewed."
One of the guards, his eyes wide with urgency, nods vigorously. "We'll comb through every second, Damien. If anything or anyone looks suspicious, we'll find them."
Damien's gaze is steely and unwavering. "And the waitstaff," he continues, his voice now a low growl. Someone planted that bomb. Get me a list of every employee on shift tonight."
Oskar is already on his phone, fingers flying over the screen. "What about the hospital, Damien? Should we—"
"No," Damien cuts him off sharply, his hand pressed against his side as if to hold himself together. It’s just like I told Mariya. That's the first place they'll expect me to go."
I watch this exchange, a strange mixture of awe and fear tightening in my chest. Even wounded, Damien is a force to be reckoned with, a leader whose presence commands attention and obedience. It's terrifying and yet enthralling at the same time.
The room is suddenly a flurry of activity, a symphony of low voices and the clicking of gun magazines being checked and rechecked. But above all else, there's the persistent attempt to reach out, to connect with the rest of Damien's family, to warn, to strategize.
"None of the calls are going through," one guard announces, his frustration mounting as he taps aggressively at his phone. "It's like we've been blacklisted from the network."
Damien grimaces in pain or perhaps impatience and pushes himself upright. "That can't be a coincidence. We need to get word to Andrei and the others—now."
The guards exchange glances, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "The Turks," they murmur among themselves, "they wouldn't dare."
But there's no time for speculation. Damien's eyes lock onto Oskar's. "Go," he says, his voice a low command that allows no argument. "You need to tell them in person. And be discreet. If we're being watched..."
Oskar doesn't wait for the sentence to finish; he's already moving, the door shutting behind him with a soft click that seems too gentle for the weight of his mission.
Damien turns to me, and I can feel the heaviness in his gaze. "The rest of us will stay put," he decides, a hint of steel underlying his words. "The house is secure. We have everything we need here."
