Chapter 6 : Hello, printsessa
1169 Words
Chapter 6 : Hello, Printsessa
The second bullet caught Nikolai in the shoulder. The third grazed his side.
But he didn’t go down.
Not even a stumble.
He kept fighting.
Gun raised, eyes cold and furious, Nikolai stood tall amidst the chaos—his tailored suit soaked in blood, his jaw clenched with iron control. He moved like a man possessed, each shot he fired finding its mark, dropping intruders left and right.
I stood frozen for a second, horrified.
Why won’t he go down? He was bleeding so much. Every second he stayed upright, he lost more blood. I wanted to scream at him to stop, to take cover, to let someone help. But Nikolai didn’t stop. He didn’t even flinch.
I forced myself forward, grabbing at his arm to pull him back, but he shook me off.
“Get back, Lyra!” he barked, his voice still sharp despite how pale he was getting.
“No, you’re losing too much blood! You need to sit down!” I snapped, desperate and angry and—God—so guilty.
I should’ve stopped this. I should’ve seen it coming.
But my brother had shot my husband. My own brother.
Gunshots still rang in my ears as Nikolai’s men surged in from the exits, flanking the intruders. The tide was turning. Retreats were being shouted. The Volkovs were regrouping fast and strong.
Then, finally—finally—two of Nikolai’s men shoved him down onto a gurney as he roared commands.
“Get the bastards! I want them alive. Every last one of them!”
Blood smeared down his side, and even then, he tried to sit back up. Another man pinned him with one hand on his chest, holding him still as the gurney rolled toward the underground medical wing. He was still yelling orders when the doors slammed shut.
And then he was gone.
I stood in the hallway, useless.
No one needed me.
No one wanted me.
The guilt was a noose tightening around my neck.
I’d brought Matteo here. Not physically, no—but I had let my brother near this world again. I hadn’t told Nikolai he was coming to the funeral. Hadn’t warned him. Hadn’t done anything.
And now he was in surgery.
Because of me.
I started pacing the sterile hallway like a madwoman, back and forth, hands clenched into fists so tight my nails left marks. I needed to do something. To make it right. To fix it.
But the doctors barred the doors, not even glancing at me. They were moving fast, shouting things I didn’t understand, pushing past me as if I were invisible.
“He needs surgery. Artery’s close to being hit.”
“Vitals dropping.”
“Another bullet wound—left thigh, clean through.”
I closed my eyes, bile rising in my throat.
This wasn’t how I wanted things. I didn’t even love him. But I didn’t want him to die.
I took a step forward and grabbed one of the nurses rushing past.
“Wait—please,” I said, my voice trembling. “Is there anything I can do? I’ve handled wounds before, I have a degree. I grew up in this world. I know how to patch up men who can’t go to hospitals. I’ve done it before—”
My voice cracked, my fingers tightening around her sleeve.
“I have to do something. I need to—please.”
The nurse blinked at me, surprised as if this wasn't the stick up heiress she expected.
Then she gently shook her head. “No, ma’am. We got this.”
She softened, her voice quieter now. “Look, I can see you want to help, but right now, you can't. Nikolai doesn't trust just anyone to handle him, especially in situations like this. So.. .”
She pulled away and disappeared behind the closed door.
And I was left standing there, more helpless than ever. The guilt chewed at my insides like acid.
Do something, my mind screamed.
But there was nothing I could do.
So I paced.
Back and forth. Back and forth. My palms were slick with sweat, my heart a fist squeezing in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. It was my brother. Matteo had done this.
And Nikolai might die because of it.
I should have stopped him. I should have seen it coming. I should have—
I pressed my fist against my mouth to stop the scream from escaping.
Time passed in fragmented seconds. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose. Every shout, every beep of machinery made my stomach clench tighter. I wanted to rip the door open and help. Do something. But I was useless. Helpless. Standing outside the man I married's hospital room, covered in his blood.
A man rushed by and I grabbed him without even thinking, “Did they get them? The intruders?”
He eyed me before answering.
“Yes, ma’am. Captured. Some dead. The rest are being dragged to the dungeons.”
My heart stopped.
Matteo.
I didn’t even wait. I sprinted through the halls, down to the lower levels of the estate where blood ran through drains and men screamed behind bars. The Volkov dungeons were not a place for mercy. I prayed I wasn’t too late.
The guards at the door barely looked at me. Ripped, scarred men—monsters in suits—let me through without a word.
I descended the stairs, pulse in my ears.
The room was thick with iron and sweat and pain. Men groaned, some unconscious, others barely sitting upright in chains. Blood streaked the stone floor. I covered my mouth, heart in my throat.
I scanned the faces.
One by one.
A breath caught in my throat.
He’s not here.
I staggered back, weak with relief. My brother wasn’t among them. But I recognized some of the others—men I had known as a child, men who once guarded my family’s estate. Mafia soldiers. Valenti loyalists. I pulled my veil lower, praying they didn’t recognize me back.
They looked half-dead. Beaten and bloodied. I heard a low whisper from a nearby guard.
“Some didn’t make it. Bodies still in the truck. Shot down during retreat.”
My knees buckled.
No. No, no, no—
What if Matteo was one of the dead? What if his body was out there, cold and bloodied and already forgotten?
I turned to run—to find someone, anyone—to get answers.
But then I heard a voice, a voice I knew.
“Don’t waste your time.”
I froze.
“He wasn’t captured,” the voice continued. “Little fast brat managed to slip through.”
My eyes widened. I turned.
And there he was.
Behind iron bars, chained at the wrists, a swollen lip and dried blood on his cheek...
Malik.
My breath left me in a rush. “You...”
He grinned, tired and sharp-edged. “Hello, printsessa.”
- Writer
