Page 69 of Nemesis

About fucking time Siderov’s backup arrived.

Speaking of the devil, salt and pepper hair emerges around the corner, immediately barking orders to the newcomers as he runs our way.

“Octavia,” he gasps in uncharacteristic panic, rushing right up to his daughter and patting down her limbs just as I did earlier.

“It’s okay,” she says in gentle reassurance. “I’m fine, Dad.”

Siderov’s eyes widen into round circles at her first use of the word. Then his arms envelop her small frame in a tight squeeze. I’d prefer for her to stay in my arms until we reach cover, but begrudgingly, I step back.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you to the van. We’ve got a jet prepped and ready in an airstrip nearby.”

That’s when I reach my limit, yanking her back into my arms like a rag doll.

Like hell is he gonna move her to a second location without revealing what he knows about the attack.

Fortunately, I remember to grab hold of her hip, rather than aggravate the bruises still healing on her side or the wrappings on her arm.

Unfortunately, I forgot that I let that asshole clip my shoulder, and the low groan that leaves my throat has Octavia flipping my direction and leveling a concerned look.

One that says I’m most definitely in trouble.

“You were hit?”

The words leave my mouth in a panicked yelp as I spin towards Vasiliy. Damp, black fabric clings to his bicep, and as I step closer, I can make out a small rip in the sleeve. I trace the wound like the appendage belongs to me. It might as well, for the amount of pain I feel slicing through my sternum.

When we were in the cage, I grew into the habit of touching him with the freedom of ownership. I wonder if that honor has since been revoked. I don’t think so, I decide, considering the way his hands always seem to find a reason to make contact with my skin, and the way his unconscious body moved toward me in the middle of the night. At least, I hope not.

“I’m fine, it just clipped me,” he says, shrugging off my concern.

I shake my head, pulling his arm back to me. I must pull a little too hard, because a subtle wince falls over his features.

“I can’t believe you got shot, and you didn’t tell me,” I snap, rolling up his sleeve.

The wound, though bloody and weeping, does seem like one of the more minor injuries I’ve seen on his body in the past week, but the sight still makes my heart sink into a chasm. If I never have to see him bleed again as long as I live, it will still be too soon.

“This place isn’t secure anymore,” Dad cuts in, stepping up to us. “We’ve got to move. Immediately.”

I can’t really focus on what he’s saying, too busy tearing off a piece of my sweatshirt to press against Vasiliy’s gunshot. This fabric is thicker than that sheer dress I was wearing in the cage, so I have to use my teeth to separate the stitches.

“We’re not boarding your fucking jet until you tell us who orchestrated that attack and how they knew we were there,” Vasiliy bites out, even as he leans down to give me better access to his arm. I tie the strip as tight as I can over the wound, securing it with a knot.

“Funny. I don’t recall inviting you to fly back home with my family,” Dad says.

I shoot him a glare. “I’m not going anywhere without Vas.”

“Octavia—”

“Can we continue this discussion in the van?” Alex interrupts, stepping up to our little group. “I don’t recall giving an ‘all clear,’ and yet, here you all are, arguing like school children.”

Vasiliy and my dad don’t even glance in his direction, too busy glaring at one another with a fire that might never burn out. Rolling my eyes, I turn and walk to the van. Thankfully, both follow along, and it’s not long before one of the armed men already seated inside slams the door and tells the driver to pull out.

Seats are sparse, so I take the liberty of settling on Vasiliy’s lap, giving me better access to hold pressure to his arm. It’s not like the tension in here could kick up any higher. Dad and Alex settle on the bench opposite us, while two guys I’ve never seen before crowd us on either side.

“This will be the last time you bleed, Vas, or so help me God, I’ll kill you myself,” I murmur, sparing a glance of wrath towards those bright blue eyes.

“I’ve been shot many times, zlaya. I’m fine. Promise,” he says with a crooked smile, as if the declaration is supposed to place me at ease.

I grip his chin, hauling his face down to mine. “The last. Fucking. Time.”