Page 98 of The Pakhan's Captive
“Lena,” I whisper, the word a broken sob. “Lena, look at me. Stay with me. Please. Don’t leave me.”
She tries to speak, her lips moving silently, a small trail of blood escaping the corner of her mouth. I pull her into my lap, clutching her against my chest, trying to hold the life inside her with my bare hands. I take over from Dmitri, pressing my palm over the wound, feeling the hot, frantic pulse of her blood against my skin. It won’t stop. There is so much of it.
“Help her!” I scream, looking up at the council, at the guards, at the world that is failing me. “Someone help her!”
My soul is ending. I feel the darkness closing in, the crushing realization that I finally found her only to lose her to the very bloodline that destroyed her father. If she dies, I am nothing. If she dies, the Pakhan is dead. There will be no rebuilding. There will be no future. There will only be the fire.
I pull her closer, burying my face in the crook of her neck, smelling her perfume mixed with the scent of death. I can feel her heart slowing down. I can feel the warmth leaving her body. The agony in my chest is so sharp it feels like I’m the one who was stabbed. I would trade every territory, every ruble, every drop of my own blood to take this back.
“Lena!” I howl her name, a raw, devastating sound that shatters the silence of the chamber.
The world goes black at the edges. I don’t see the medics rushing in. I don’t see the council members backing away in horror. I only see her. I only see the woman who chose me, the woman who took a blade for a monster, the woman who was my only chance at being a man.
“Lena!”I roar her name again, a desperate, broken plea to a god I don’t believe in, my voice echoing through the halls of my hollow empire as I hold her dying body in the wreckage of our lives.
32
LENA
The first thing I feel isn’t the pain. It’s the cold.
It’s a hollow, ringing chill that starts at my fingertips and rushes inward, turning my blood to slush. The grand ceiling of the council chamber is spinning, a blurred mosaic of gold leaf and ancient wood that feels like it’s falling toward me. I try to breathe, but my lungs feel like they’ve been filled with wet sand.
“Lena!Lena!”
The voice is a roar. It vibrates through the floorboards and into my spine, more a force of nature than a human sound. I feel hands on me, huge, trembling hands that snatch me up. Razvan. I can’t see his face clearly, just the dark smudge of his hair and the frantic, terrifying glint of his eyes.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Zayka. Stay with me.Look at me!”
I try. I really do. I want to tell him I’m okay, but when I open my mouth, only a soft, wet wheeze comes out. I look down and see his hands pressed against my side. The white of his cuffs is gone, replaced by a deep, pulsing crimson that looks black under thechandelier light. It’s my blood. It’s everywhere. It’s soaking into his shirt, coating his rings, dripping onto the floor.
The room starts to fragment.
Flash.I’m moving. The world is a series of strobe lights and shouting. I see the council members backing away like ghosts. I see Dmitri’s face, pale and tight, as he barks orders into a radio.
Flash.The hallway. The ceiling tiles are a blur of white. I feel the rhythmic jolt of a gurney, but I’m not on it. I’m still in his arms. He won’t put me down. The medics are hovering, their hands reaching for me, but Razvan is a wall of muscle and fury. He’s snarling at them, a wounded animal protecting its mate.
“Put her down, Pakhan! We need to move!”
“I am not leaving her!” he bellows.
The air smells like iron and antiseptic. I feel a sharp prick in my arm, then the cold starts to turn into a heavy, velvet darkness. The last thing I see before the world vanishes is Razvan’s face. He looks undone. Not the Pakhan. Not the monster. Just a man whose soul is leaking through his fingers.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, his forehead dropping against mine for a split second. “Don’t you dare leave me, Lena.”
The light goes out.
The darkness is long. It’s a quiet, empty place where the pain can’t find me. But eventually, the world starts to pull me back.
It starts with a sound. A rhythmic, annoyingbeep-beep-beep. It’s steady. Constant. I try to move my hand, but it feels like it’s made of lead. My side throbs, a dull, heavy ache that reminds me I’m still tethered to a body. I force my eyelids open, and the dim, blue light of a hospital room spills in.
I’m not alone.
Razvan is here. He isn’t sitting in a chair. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, leaning forward so far his chest is almost touching my arm. He looks terrible. He hasn’t changed his clothes. The black suit jacket is gone, and his white shirt is a map of dried, brown bloodstains. His hair is a mess, standing up in jagged peaks where he’s clearly been running his hands through it.
He’s holding my hand.
It’s not the possessive, crushing grip I’ve grown used to. It’s light. His fingers are laced through mine, his thumb tracing small, slow circles over my knuckles. He’s staring at our joined hands with an intensity that makes my throat tighten. He’s not performing. There’s no audience here, no council to impress. He’s just a man holding onto the only thing that matters.
