He snarls. “You fucking asshole.”

  I pant as sweat drips from my forehead. My vision is blurred. He tips his head back and laughs. “Drugged and hanging and still mouthing off.”

  My voice scrapes out. “Come closer.”

  “As you wish, prince,” he mocks, stepping in again. His fist comes up. I drop my weight, every inch I can steal from the length of the chain. His knuckles skim past my jaw. I twist and drive my shoulder hard into his hip. The floor is slick, making his boot slide. I follow through with a short hook into his ribs. Pain explodes through my own chest, but I don't let him see it.

  He slaps a palm against the wall. Before he can plant his feet, I bring my heel sideways into the side of his knee. The sound is small and wrong. A pop that has Mikhail go down on one knee with a curse.

  “He shouldn't be doing that after what we pumped in him,” Sergei mutters.

  Mikhail pushes himself up. Whatever pride he came in with is gone. “You think this changes anything? You're still up there on the chain.”

  He lunges for my head. I jump as much as my body allows. His fist grazes along the bone. I turn into him, hook my arm around his throat, and drag him in so close his breath hits my ear. We slam into the wall together.

  “You don't deserve any of this,” he chokes. “You were born into it.”

  “So you'd better show me some respect.”

  His nails scratch at my skin. His injured leg trembles. I use what I have left. The thought of Jonah. The wall. Gravity. I drive him back into the concrete with my body. The impact of his skull against the stone jolts through me. His fingers weaken. The back of his head hits the floor with a dull, empty sound.

  No one rushes in. My chest drags air in, hard and broken. Every breath grinds against ribs that feel bruised from the inside. The sedative makes the room swim, but the logic of survival is clear. Sokolov's smile has thinned.

  Sergei approaches, shoes untouched by the blood. “Look at you. Still snarling.” He studies my face. “Your father stood here once. In the same light. He even made the same sounds. He thought if he was loud enough, he'd be saved. But no one came to save him.”

  “You broke him,” I rasp. “Just like you're trying to break me.”

  “I took him out of his misery. Your Papa was very ill. Strength is knowing when to put something down.”

  “You son of a⁠—”

  Sergei pinches my throat between his fingers and squeezes. Pain spikes. “Careful, nephew. You're very, very alone now. You are a piece on my board. My piece. My puppet. Andrei.”

  Petrov moves forward again, already holding another syringe. His hand shakes. “I wanted him slower. Weaker. Crawling before the first punch. He was still performing. Next time you triple it if you must.”

  “Yes… yes, sir.”

  Sergei watches the flickers in my face. “You'll live another day. Long enough for them to see where you stand. Take him upstairs.”

  Hands grab under my shoulders. My knees buckle. My feet scrape the floor. The chain jerks hard, yanking me forward. The world becomes a series of disconnected images. The flickering hallway lights. The smell of floor wax. The cold iron of the door. They shove me through the doorway of my room.

  The chain finally slackens.

  “Viktor!”

  Jonah's on the floor beside me before I fully register falling. My knees smash into the rug. My palms slide. His are the only solid thing left in the world.

  The sedative is a thick, black tide, but the heat of his skin anchors me to the floor. I survived the basement because Sergei thinks he's my weakness, but he doesn't realize the nurse has become the only reason I haven't let the dark take me yet. When the fuck did that happen? When did I let a stranger become my only anchor?

  “What did you do?” he shouts. “What the hell did you do to him?”

  One of the guards snorts. “He's alive. That's more than he deserves.”

  The door closes. The lock turns.

  Jonah's thumb presses under my jaw, trying to lift my face. “Come on. Stay with me.”

  “I'm fine.” It sounds like someone else.

  “You're not fine. You're bleeding everywhere. You're ice cold.” He rips a sheet, presses it to my ribs. His palms shake. “Sorry. I have to. It's okay. I've got you.”

  The sedative drags heavier. Jonah leans close. His warmth is the only thing keeping the fog from turning into night.

  “You're okay,” he whispers. “You're with me. You're okay.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  JONAH

  Viktor collapses before we even reach the bed. The sound of his body hitting the mattress makes my stomach drop. One second he’s moving under his own weight, and the next his knees give out and he pitches into me. I catch him badly. We hit the mattress together, his weight knocking the air out of my lungs. My ribs ache where his shoulder slammed into me, but I don't have time to feel the bruise.

  He ends up facedown, fingers clawing into the sheet. His breath comes in short, broken pulls that scrape at his throat. The chain at his waist clanks against the frame, a cold, heavy sound that makes my skin crawl.

  “Viktor.”

  There’s no answer. His eyes stay shut, lashes dark against his skin. His mouth is slack. He looks like someone I’ve never seen before—someone breakable. Dragging him fully onto the bed takes everything I have. He’s dead weight, all hard muscle and heat that tugs at every tendon in my arms. I heave him upward, my muscles burning, until he’s centered on the mattress. He smells like copper and something synthetic, like a hospital wing gone wrong.

  “Viktor. Come on.”

  His head lolls when I turn his face toward me. His eyes flutter, staring at me absently. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the green I'm used to. A thin line of dried blood seals the corner of his mouth. My stomach twists. It feels like someone hooked their fingers into my gut and yanked. The clinical part of my brain is counting his respirations, marking the shallow rise and fall of his chest, while the rest of me is just screaming.

  I snatch the basin from the nightstand and wring out a cloth. I wipe him down in slow strokes. His throat, the line of his jaw, the dried streaks at his temple. There are new bruises along his ribs where they held him still. His skin flinches under the cloth, a reflex that flares and fades before he goes slack again.

  “Say something.” I lean close so the words land at his ear. “Please.”

  His breath hitches. I cling to that like it's proof he's still in there. I slide onto the bed beside him and pull his head into my lap. My fingers comb through his hair, pushing damp black strands back from his forehead. He feels wrong. Too hot where the fever runs, too cold in the palms. He was a predator this morning. Now he's a ghost.

  “Viktor. It's over. I'm here. Just breathe.”

  A sharp sound snaps through the room. Footsteps. Coming straight for us. Heavy boots on the hardwood, and it is not the careful stride of the usual guards. These people are in a hurry.

  My grip on him tightens until my fingers ache. The lock clicks. My body reacts before my mind does. I’m on my feet as the handle turns, my heart hammering hard enough to make me dizzy.

  I grab the lamp from the table and wrench it free. The cord snaps tight in my hand. I lift it with both hands and plant myself in front of the bed. My back is to Viktor. My feet are set. I don't know when I decided to die for him, but I'm standing here anyway. The weight of the base is clumsy in my hands, a pathetic defense against whatever is behind that door, but it's all I have.

  The door slams inward. Two men and a woman, all in black. They surge toward the bed.

  “Bozhe.” The one in front has a sharp, clipped voice. His gaze finds the bed. “It's him.”

  “Touch him and I swing.” The words splinter on my tongue. “He can't stand. He can barely breathe. You're not dragging him down to that basement again. If you hurt him, I swear to God I'll kill you.”

  They stare at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.

  The first man lifts empty palms. “We're not here to hurt him. Move aside.”

  Footsteps thrum down the hall. A door slams. The woman checks the corridor. “We've no time for this. We need to get the fuck outta here.”

  “No.” The lamp base bites into my skin. I can't breathe, but I don't move. “You're not taking him anywhere.”

  “We move now.” The man levels a gun at my face. The black circle of the barrel is the only thing I can see. It's steady. Unblinking. One of them crouches and works the chain free from Viktor’s waist. It hits the floor with a heavy thud, finally letting him go. “If you don't do as I say, we'll all be dead. We're not here to hurt Viktor.”

  I glare at him, but my confidence is a lie. I don't know who to trust. Not the guards. Not them. But they have guns and I have a lamp.

  I lower the base.

  They lift Viktor from the bed. His drugged body sways as they force him through the door. He groans when his side pulls, his frame curling instinctively. I reach out to steady him, my hand catching the crook of his elbow. He’s so hot he feels like he’s melting.

  “Easy. We’ve got you.”

  His head tips toward my shoulder when they straighten. His eyes drag open, the effort costing him everything. They lock on me.

  “Jonah,” he whispers. “Come.”

  “I’m right here.” My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out. “I’m right here.” I turn to the closest guard. “If you try anything, I’ll scream the whole house down.”

  He almost smiles. A flicker that vanishes. He angles us toward the door. “Good. Make noise later. Now we move.”

  We spill into the hallway, which is a knot of bodies and frantic breath. The cameras in the corners are dark, wires torn loose. On the far end of the corridor, a body lies crumpled near the stairwell. One of Sergei’s guards. His head is at a wrong angle. I don't look away. I can't afford to. The reality of the blood on the floor should make me sick, but my only thought is getting Viktor past it.

  “Clear.”

  Viktor coughs, a rough sound that yanks my focus. I cinch my arm around his back and keep pace, my fingers digging into his shirt, trying to hold him upright. We’re getting out of here. I have to believe that.

  His hand finds mine blindly. I lace our fingers together, gripping until my knuckles ache.

  We burst through a steel door into the night. The cold air is a physical blow, stinging my lungs after the stagnant heat of the room. A black SUV idles on the gravel. Exhaust drifts in the dark. A man stands by the rear door, gun at his hip. He lifts his phone. “We’ve got him. Go.”

  They load Viktor first. He tries to fight it—some stubborn muscle memory trying to wake up—but the drugs drag him back down. “Leave me. Take him.”

  “No. You go first, Pakhan.”

  Viktor’s shoulders relax at the word. His eyes flutter closed. I climb in after him, wedging myself between his body and the door. His weight leans into me, his head slumping against my chest. His breath is hot and uneven against my throat. I wrap an arm around him. I am the only thing keeping him from shattering.

  The door slams. The car shivers. “Drive.”

  The SUV lunges. Gravel spits. We jolt through the gate and out onto the street. The driver guns the engine, tearing away from the mansion. Adrenaline spikes, sharp and metallic in my mouth.

  Streetlights flash through the glass, washing over Viktor’s face. He looks like a corpse. The thought makes my heart stop. I should be thinking about the guns, or the car chasing us, or the fact that I’m caught in the middle of a war I don't understand. But I can't. I can only think about the weight of his head on my chest and the terrifying possibility of a world where he isn't breathing.

  “Shake the fuckers off.”

  “How the hell did they know we were acting tonight?”

  “I don't know, but we better lose them.” The guard is on his phone. “He’s on his way.”

  Who is? I’m too scared to ask. I clutch Viktor’s hand as we rip through the streets. We barrel along a paved drive of a private estate. Lights flare on, white and blinding.

  “Down!”

  I drop into the footwell, my knees slamming into the floorboards. The driver slams the brakes. Tires scream. The door is wrenched open. Shots crack into the windshield. Gunfire erupts behind us. The sound is deafening, a series of sharp, rhythmic pops that tear through the air. The SUV skids to a halt, bullets hammering the metal before it lurches backward.

  We scramble out. Viktor is mumbling now, barely conscious. He’s sweating, skin clammy and burning. Two men fill the doorway of the house, guns trained on us.

  “Help!” I’m screaming now. My hands skid uselessly over Viktor’s slick skin. “He needs a doctor!”

  The female guard reaches me and yanks me away from him. Viktor jerks upright, reaching for me, pulling me into a hard embrace. His heart is racing too fast—a frantic drumming against my own. His lips move against my shirt.

  I bend closer. “Not… leaving you.” I don't know why I’m clinging to a man who has brought nothing but blood into my life. All I know is that if he lets go, I’ll stop existing. I’ve traded my safety for his shadow and I’m never going back.

  “I’m not leaving you either.” I don't know when he became the only thing that matters. I don't know why I’m clinging to a man who has brought nothing but blood and terror into my life. All I know is that if he lets go, I’ll stop existing.

  “Get him inside the house.”

  I don't move. I stay angled toward Viktor, my arm braced across his chest. His fingers curl weakly into my shirt. I don't care who has a gun. I'm not letting go.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  JONAH

  Absolute chaos follows. Fingers peel his shirt away. Someone checks his breathing while another presses a palm to his throat. Men move around us, Russian words cutting the air.

  I stay close until one of them angles his body between me and the bed. He shuts me out. The mattress is a flurry of hands and equipment. I'm an outsider again. A shadow in a room full of soldiers.

  The doctor, a woman with red hair tucked into a bun, checks the monitor. She mutters about the stimulant overdose. Her flashlight cuts through the dim light, catching the way Viktor’s chest hitches in bursts. Every rasping breath he takes feels like a hook in my own lungs.

  I try to push past, but a guard jabs me in the back and yanks me away. He steers me into a stiff-backed armchair. I’m forced to face a man in a black T-shirt. Blond hair falls over pale eyes. His fingers clip the end of a cigarette. He barks orders, but his gaze never leaves mine. He looks like he’s already decided where to bury me.

  He’s around Viktor’s age. Built for trouble. He’s close to Viktor; it’s in the way he watches the bed. His palms shake as he lights the cigarette and tosses a silver lighter onto the table. He stills his hands before anyone can see.

  “If you’re going to smoke, go outside.” The doctor doesn't look up.

  He ignores her. He exhales a stream of smoke and studies me. “So. Whose part are you playing?”

  “Nikolai.” The doctor snaps her bag shut. “This isn't the time for an interrogation. We should be lucky his heart didn't seize in that basement.” She fixes her gaze on me. “If it wasn't for you. How did you know what to do for him?”

  “I’m a nurse.” I hate the stammer. I hate that I’m sitting here shaking while he’s lying there. I want the version of him that was awake. The one who called me mine. The guards filter out, but the distance between us doesn't shrink. He’s there, and I’m here. I want him conscious. I want to be back in the room with the piano, tangled in his bed. Just us.

  My eyes burn. I blink hard. I won't cry in front of these people.

  “A nurse.” Nikolai takes another drag.

  “Yes. I was assigned to take care of him. It’s complicated.”

  “Then fucking explain it.”

  “I don't know where to start.”

  “At the beginning.”

  “My father called me and took me to the Morozovs.” The words feel like lead. “He had a debt. He couldn't pay it, so he… he sold me.”

  Nikolai’s brows draw together. “He sold you? To who? Sergei?”

  “No. To the lady. The one who runs the house.”

  “Babushka.” He hums. “So it's true.”

  He watches in silence as the doctor puts on her coat.

  “So Babushka hired you to take care of Viktor.”

  Boots thrum down the hallway. The guards snap to attention. The door bursts open and a man storms in. Dark hair, set jaw, tattoos running down both arms. The resemblance to Viktor is a physical blow. It knocks the air right out of me. He doesn't wait for an answer. He scans the room until he sees the bed. His stride falters. He braces his hands on the mattress near Viktor’s shoulder, searching for a pulse. “Vitya… bratik… open your eyes.”

  Viktor doesn't move. The man leans closer until his forehead almost touches Viktor’s. “I buried you,” he whispers. “I fucking buried you.” He looks up, eyes finding Nikolai. “You knew?”

  “Lev.” A guard starts to speak, but the man raises a palm. “Don't. Niko?”

  Nikolai lights another cigarette. “I couldn't tell you, mladshenkiy. Not until I was sure we could get him out. I wasn't letting him die twice.”

  “You could have fucking told me. For fuck’s sake.” Lev pushes Nikolai, but there's no force behind it. He lets Nikolai squeeze his shoulder before he turns to me. “And who the fuck are you?”

  I press back into the chair. The wood bites into my spine. “I'm… was… Viktor’s nurse.” My face is on fire. He’s looking at me with Viktor’s eyes, but there's no heat in them. Only ice.

  Lev takes a step toward me. I cringe, pulling back until there's nowhere left to go. Lev takes a step toward me. I cringe, pulling back until there's nowhere left to go. His gaze is a weight I can’t shake, a mirror of the man currently drowning in sedatives on the bed. I should be pleading for my life, but instead, I’m claiming my place at Viktor’s side because the thought of being sent back to the world is worse than the threat of a shallow grave.