Brutal vows

Chapter 8: The Crimson Bleed

The green glow from the security monitors cast eerie, shifting shadows across the cold cedar beams of the living room. Outside, the storm continued to rage, a relentless assault of wind and rain that rattled the reinforced glass panes, but inside, the silence was a heavy, living entity. I remained on the floor, my knees pulled tightly to my chest, my ruined white silk dress stained with the dark earth of the ravine. My teeth chattered, a rhythmic, uncontrollable sound that seemed overly loud in the quiet cabin.

Alekov didn't look at me initially. He walked to the master control panel, his large hands moving with practiced efficiency as he checked the battery reserves of the backup generator. The red indicator light blinked steadily, a tiny beacon of warning. The signal jammer the hit squad used had cut off all communication with my father’s main syndicate house. We were an island in a sea of black pines.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes, Elena," Alekov said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He kept his back to me, but his shoulders were stiff. "There are dry tactical clothes in the chest by the hallway. Change. Hypothermia will kill you faster than a bullet."

"I can't move," I whispered, my voice cracking. The adrenaline was finally leaving my system, leaving behind a profound, hollow exhaustion. "Alekov... look at your arm.

"He paused, his hand hovering over the security interface. He slowly turned around, the dim green light catching the side of his sharp, aristocratic jawline. He looked down at his left forearm. The white fabric of his dress shirt, already soaked transparent by the rain, was heavily saturated with a dark, expanding stain of crimson. During the frantic scuffle with the grunt back at the estate, or perhaps during our tumble down the ravine, a blade or sharp glass had sliced deep into his muscle. He had been bleeding out for the last forty-five minutes without uttering a single word of complaint.

"It is a surface scratch," he said automatically, his professional mask slipping firmly back into place. "It doesn't affect my grip. I can still handle a weapon."

"It's not a scratch," I said, anger suddenly replacing my fear as I forced myself to stand up on trembling legs. I crossed the dark room, ignoring the three-foot rule that had dictated our lives for two years. I closed the distance between us until I was standing right in his space, the heat radiating from his massive frame washing over my freezing skin. "You're bleeding through your clothes, Alekov. If you lose too much blood, you won't be able to protect anyone. Let me look at it."

"Elena, back up," he warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. He took a half-step back, trying to re-establish the mandatory radius. "Do not close the distance. You know the rules of the Don. I am your guard, nothing more.""There is an army outside trying to kill us, the communication lines are dead, and my father is miles away," I said, my voice rising with a desperate, fierce defiance. I reached out, my cold, bare fingers wrapping around his right wrist, stopping him from moving further away."There is an army outside trying to kill us, the communication lines are dead, and my father is miles away," I said, my voice rising with a desperate, fierce defiance. I reached out, my cold, bare fingers wrapping around his right wrist, stopping him from moving further away.

The moment my skin met his, a violent, palpable tremor ran through his entire six-foot-four frame. He froze, his breath hitching sharply in his chest. His skin was burning hot, a stark contrast to the freezing rain that still clung to his hair. For two years, we had avoided even the slightest accidental brush of hands. Now, the touch was deliberate, holding him in place.

"The rules don't matter if we don't survive the night," I whispered, looking up into his dark eyes.

Alekov stared down at me, his nostrils flaring. The cold, mechanical soldier was warring violently with the raw, starving soul of a man who had looked but never touched. For a long, breathless second, I thought he was going to shove me away, to enforce the blood oath with the cold iron of his training. Instead, his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking violently, and he let out a low, ragged sigh that sounded like absolute defeat.

"The medical kit is under the sink in the kitchen," he muttered, his voice rougher than I had ever heard it. "Hurry.”