Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(54)

He cut on the shower, trying to get the temperature right. Lauren made a noise that had him spinning around in worry. She was tearing at her clothes, not caring that she was hurting herself in the process.

“Lauren, stop!”

He reached for her hands, but she slapped him away, managing to yank her shirt off. She was crying, mumbling something that sounded like, ‘get it off.’

It wasn’t the clothes she was trying to get off, but the blood coating her skin. Not knowing what else to do, Mishca hooked an arm around her waist, hauling her into the shower with him. His own clothes were soaked through in seconds, but he was too worried about her to give that much thought.

Mishca held her wrists with one hand to keep her immobile, using his other to rub at her skin, showing her as it washed off. “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s over.”

“I-I was looking for my book and I thought you were there…I tried calling but you didn’t answer.” She was looking at him, but he didn’t think she was actually seeing him.

“I didn’t…he was going to…I had to shoot him.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he promised, still holding her as the water rained down on them. It was his fault for putting her in harm’s way. “I’m sorry.”

But that would never be enough. She fell silent again, helping him pull off her jeans and undergarments. He was careful with her, washing her off thoroughly without making the act sexual. She didn’t need that right now.

Out again, he dried her off, dressing her in one of his shirts, leaving her on the bed as he went in search of a first aid kit. Finding it beneath the sink, he carried it back into the bedroom.

He carefully wiped her hand down with antiseptic, bandaging it as best he could. Shifting the covers back, he helped her in, going to change his own clothes before climbing in beside her, pulling her into his side. He rested his chin on top of her wet hair, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

From experience, he knew there was nothing he could say to make her feel better. Only thing he could do at this point was to keep her calm and hopefully she would be willing to talk about it when she was ready.

Several minutes passed as he listened for her breathing to even out. He wished he could read her thoughts, wondering whether or not his presence with her was helping at all. He wished he could do a number of things to make this better for her.

Mishca couldn’t help the pang of anxiety he felt at the thought of losing her all over again. As much as it pained him to admit, this wouldn’t be the last time something like this happened, that would just be wishful thinking, and he loved her too much to lie about the dangers she would face by being with him.

He had been selfish, only caring that she was finally with him instead of heeding his father’s warnings. He had foolishly thought he could protect her from anything, but how could he protect her from himself.

When he finally felt her go lax, he silently slipped out of bed, tucking the covers around her. He had a job to do.

Grabbing a garbage bag from the kitchen, he filled it with his own clothes and began placing hers in there as well. When he tossed her jeans in next, a flash of gold slipped from the pocket. Looking down, he spotted the gold wedding band on a delicate chain.

Brows drawn together, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He knew who it belonged to with just a glance.

Mishca watched as Doc stitch up the brigadier’s bullet wound, the ring of his finger curious. He knew what it was of course, but he didn’t understand why Doc wore it. His mother had worn one, but he had never seen Mikhail with one, not even when they were in the privacy of their home.

Once he was finished, Doc clapped the man on the shoulder, giving him instructions on how to properly care for the wound.

Alone with him, Mishca asked, “Why do you wear that?”

Doc looked down to where Mishca was gesturing, holding his hand out to slip the ring off. He was used to Mishca’s questions, attributing it to his unconventional upbringing. Despite only being nine, Mishca was tall for his age and carried himself like he was far older.

Showing him the ring, he turned it so that he could see the engraving within the interior. “It’s a symbol of my love for my wife.”

“My father doesn’t wear one,” Mishca said reasonably, “but he loved my mother.”

The way his eyes flickered down to the floor for just a moment told Doc that he didn’t necessarily believe that. Sighing, he tried to describe it the best way he knew how.

“I wear it for my family, to show others that I value them.”

Mishca shook his head, turning the ring over and over in his hands. “Families are a weakness. You’re letting your enemies know how to hurt you.”

Doc liked to think he didn’t have enemies, though with the way his life was going now, he wasn’t so sure anymore. “One day, you’re going to fall for a young lady who will make you want to give her the world. You won’t care about the danger that your life may pose because you know you’ll protect her from anything.

“This,” he said slipping the ring back on his finger, “is my way of telling my enemies that yes, I do have a family, but I’ll die before I allow anyone to harm them.”

Mishca frowned. “Hubris, is it not?”

“Not when it’s true.”

Mishca had f*cked up. Unlike him, Cameron Thompson had did what he’d said so many years ago. He had given his life for Lauren and the only thing Mishca was doing was putting that sacrifice in danger.