Chapter 6 - Blood on Velvet
It was Roman.
He didn't look like a businessman anymore. His jacket was gone, his white dress shirt torn at the shoulder and drenched in a mix of rain and blood. His eyes, usually a cold and calculating gray, burned with the feral ferocity of a beast whose territory had been violated.
Two more intruders pivoted toward the balcony, shouting in panic.
Roman didn't seek cover. He moved with impossible, terrifying grace, closing the distance before the men could even raise their barrels. He drove the butt of his weapon into the first man’s jaw with a sickening crack, spun, and drew his sidearm, firing two clean shots into the second man's chest.
It was over in less than four seconds.
The penthouse fell dead silent, save for the howling wind whipping through the shattered balcony door and the ragged sound of my own breathing.
Viktor stepped out from behind a marble pillar, reloading his magazine, his shoulder bleeding. "East side is secured, Boss. Petrov’s main convoy was ambushed at the bridge by our third unit."
Roman didn't acknowledge Viktor. He dropped his empty weapon onto the ruined floor with a dull thud and walked straight toward me.
I was still curled in a trembling ball against the study door, my eyes wide with sheer terror. As his towering frame shadowed over me, I instinctively flinched.
Roman halted instantly.
The predatory rage in his expression flickered, replaced by something dark, raw, and fiercely possessive. He dropped slowly to one knee, bringing himself to eye level with me. Rain dripped from his dark hair down the sharp angles of his jaw, mingling with a smear of crimson on his cheekbone.
"Elena," he murmured. His voice was rough, gravelly, yet surprisingly gentle compared to the violence he had just unleashed. "Did they touch you?"
I shook my head violently, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. "N-no. But you... you're bleeding."
I reached out without thinking, my trembling fingers hovering just inches from a deep gash tearing across his upper bicep.
Roman caught my wrist in mid-air. His grip was firm, calloused, but not painful. He pulled my hand against his chest, right over his pounding heart.
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"A scratch," he whispered, staring into my eyes with an intensity that made the room spin. "I told you I’d be back, didn't I, baby?"
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