Chapter 7 - Tending the Beast
By three in the morning, Viktor’s clean-up crew had swept through the penthouse with chilling efficiency. The bodies were removed, the glass swept, and temporary ballistic shutters sealed over the broken balcony doors.
Roman refused the syndicate doctor Viktor brought up, sending the medic to stitch up Viktor’s shoulder instead.
"I don't need a quack poking at me," Roman had growled, dismissing everyone until only the two of us remained in the massive master bathroom.
The bathroom was the size of my entire apartment, lined with black Italian marble, a freestanding soaking tub, and a vanity lit by soft, golden sconces.
Roman sat on the edge of the marble bench, shirtless. His torso was a map of old scars, bullet wounds, and intricate dark tattoos depicting a coiled serpent around a dagger. Across his left bicep was a jagged four-inch cut, blood steadily trickling down his forearm.
"You're being stubborn," I said softly, holding a bowl of warm antiseptic water, tweezers, and a roll of gauze. My hands were still shaking, but the sheer absurdity of the night had numbed my fear into quiet resolve.
Roman watched me through half-lidded, predatory eyes. "You think you can handle sewing up a monster, Elena?"
"I was a nursing student for two years before my father fell ill and I had to drop out to work," I replied, kneeling beside his leg. "So yes. Hold still."
I dabbed the wound with an antiseptic pad. Roman didn't flinch, didn't even hiss. He just stared at my face, tracking every twitch of my lips, every breath I drew.
"Why Petrov?" I asked quietly, focusing on cleaning the torn flesh to avoid his burning gaze. "He said you took something of his. Was it drugs? Territory?"
Roman let out a dark, mocking chuckle. "Petrov thinks the world belongs to whoever barks loudest. He wanted the docks. He threatened my shipping lines. But tonight... tonight he made the mistake of targeting my personal communications."
I froze, the tweezers hovering in the air. "The text message."
"My private line is known to exactly four people in this hemisphere," Roman said, leaning down slightly so his warm breath brushed my ear. "When an unknown number called me 'baby' and demanded I come outside, my intelligence unit traced it within three minutes. Petrov intercepted the ping. He assumed you were my secret lover. A lever to break me."
I swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "And instead, I'm just a waitress who made a typo."
Roman’s hand suddenly came up, his warm, rough fingers sliding under my chin and lifting my gaze to meet his.
"You were a waitress yesterday," Roman whispered, his thumb lightly stroking my lower lip. "Tonight, you survived Petrov’s hit squad in my penthouse without screaming or begging for mercy. And right now, you are stitching my skin back together."
His eyes darkened with something hungry, dangerous, and possessively intimate.
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"There is nothing 'just' about you anymore, Elena."
***