Page 121 of Brutal Truths

“Do you want my help?” I ask lifting his shirt.

The blood is darker, not a bright red. Which tells me it’s venous, not arterial. When I raise the fabric higher, he winces but doesn’t move. The wound sits just below his rib cage, off-center. When I reach around, I discover there’s no exit wound. Meaning the bullet is likely lodged in his kidney. He’ll live—if he cooperates and doesn’t piss off the woman holding the knife to his throat.

“How bad?” He grunts when I press my fingers into the wound.

“You’ll live as long as you tell us what we want to know.”

“That’s my girl.” Gabby chuckles next to me. “You were saying something about your uncle using Rurik as his pawn.”

Needing to stop the bleeding, I do what needs to be done.

Fortunately, I wore layers today. A tank beneath the cotton button-up shirt I put on this morning. Once I have it unbuttoned and off, I rip it into strips.

Quentin is staring at me with lust in his eyes.

Bastard.

My finger digs into the sensitive tissue before I pack his wound, pushing deep enough to make him feel it.

“Fuck! Okay, stop.” His legs jerk, the movement forcing the blade at his throat to bite deeper into his skin. His eyes go wide as he tries to still himself, but that’s not easy when death is breathing down your neck. “Don’t be a bitch. I’ll tell you if you stop that shit.”

“Start talking,” I say, not easing up as I pack the wound.

It’s not clean. Not even close. But it’ll keep him alive long enough to get what we need. If he ends up with an infection, that’s not my problem. It’s his for being a dumbass.

Through gritted teeth, he caves. “He didn’t tell me everything. All I know is that Trent pissed him off when he promoted someone who hadn’t earned it.”

Aiden. He has to be talking about him.

“I guess he’d been skimming off the top for years, and this fucker somehow found out. Except my uncle was smart enough to cover his tracks. And when they confronted the guy they thought was the traitor, he shot him in the head and played it off as an overreaction.” He grimaces when I put pressure against the packing, holding it in place. “Jesus, that hurts.”

I glance over at my sister. “Pull off his belt. We need something that will hold it tighter than I can.”

While she does, he keeps talking.

“So he had to alter his plan. When he heard about the Russian being back, he saw an opportunity. Used him to do the dirty work and reap the benefits when it was over.”

Slipping the belt around his torso, I pull it tight, securing pressure to the wound. “We need to make a hole here.”

Gabby pulls out another knife and flashes it at Quentin. “Don’t move, or I might slip and stab you instead.”

Once she’s made one, I lock the belt in place and sit back on my heels. Fingers pressed to his wrist, I check his pulse. It’s rapid but steady. We’ve got minutes before he passes out on us, ending this conversation.

“How did you get involved? Why?”

Pain flickers across his face, tightening the edges of his eyes. “Lawrence dragged me along to one of his shady games. Got me hooked. I lost a lot of money. When my uncle found out, he offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”

His voice starts to fade, eyes getting droopy, so I slap him. “Not yet. Why? Why would you agree to that?”

Taking a slow breath, his eyes meet mine. That evil glint is back—dark, possessive—and it chills me to my core. “If I helped, he promised me the one thing I’ve been after since the moment I first saw you. He’s the only person I could talk to about stuff my family never understood. We’ve always been close.”

“What was that? Say it!”

“You.” He licks his lips, and it has nothing to do with dryness. “He promised me I’d get to keep you once this was over.”

“Keep me!” The words come out sharp. “I’m not a fucking microwave, Quinten. I’m a person who would’ve told you to fuck off.”

He smirks, and says exactly what I expected. “That’s where you’re wrong. Slaves do as they are told, or they get punished for disobeying their master.”