Page 124 of Twisted Little Game

Blood seeps out of Roman onto his shirt, coming from his stomach, more and more, until the paramedics put more pressure on it and I have to take my eyes away.

I stopped shaking long ago, because my body shook so hard it couldn’t anymore.

I’m afraid of everything.

And I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t see things like this. Not ever, in my lifetime.

So many people got shot.

Fuck, Roman, you got shot, and I…

Are the cops going to be there, waiting for us like vultures over a dead body, surrounding Roman’s hospital bed? How widespread is the corruption that exists in the city, hundreds of miles away? Will they know it was all self-defense? Will anyone know the goddamn truth about anything?

I pull in a long, slow breath and feel Roman’s pinky come out to gently stroke along my hand.

He can still move, in these little ways.

Showing me he’s still there.

But he doesn’t open his eyes.

He isn’t… him.

My stable rock, always there to tell me that everything is okay.

He murmurs something softly, but it’s in Russian, and even if it were in my language I don’t think I would have understood it. I lean over to kiss his shoulder, and one of the paramedics pushes me back, telling me to move away.

Hours melt into hours, sitting around in the hospital waiting room, and the night drags on into a long, uninterrupted blur.

The lighting in the hospital is too bright, too fluorescent. I get a latte from the cheap little machine down the hall that was called “pumpkin spice” but it tastes more like burnt, old cinnamon and clove. There’s a constant faint beeping from some open door nearby, and a round desk at the center of the hall is where nurses gather between tasks, tapping things out on keyboards and making phone calls.

The whole world is going by.

Even while Roman is lying in there, possibly dying.

And I hate every moment of waiting.

Hunter was with us in the ambulance and soon, Sev, Niko, and Maks arrive, coming to find us in the waiting area.

They’ve all changed clothes.

No one has bloodstains on their shirts anymore, even Maks. I stand up the moment I see him, rushing over to his side.

“How is your wound?” I ask.

He glances up at me. “You saw that I was shot?”

“Of course. The bullet went right over your arm.”

He nods. “It hurts like a bitch, but it didn’t go very deep at all. More like… a very bad surface cut. I took care of it. Roman is okay?”

“They’re still stitching him back into one piece. The doctor explained, but I didn’t understand.”

Maks squeezes my arm.

There’s something comforting about him. He shares some resemblance to Roman, but they’re not identical, clearly cousins and not brothers.

I feel safer, more whole, now that someone Roman loves is here with me.