The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,43

voice with a Russian accent.” Dima grins.

I pour the hydrogen peroxide liberally over Oleg’s wound, catching the drips with the washcloth. I suck in a breath when it bubbles and hisses over the open wound.

Oleg types something with his forefinger. He’s slow. I imagine his large finger makes it harder.

“Hit that to make it speak aloud.” Dima points at the screen.

An Australian-accented male voice says, “Don’t worry about me, swallow.”

I meet his eye. “What was swallow in Russian?” I ask.

Oleg looks down at the screen, like he’s not sure how to reverse the language, but Dima answers for him. “Lastochka. Is that what he calls you? I can set that word not to translate, if it’s your pet name.” He picks up the tablet and types something in.

Natasha reappears and doctors the wound with a poultice, and then she and Dima leave us alone.

Oleg falls back on the bed. I curl into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He looks at me and points at my chest then at his own.

“I belong to you?”

A tiny smile appears. I didn’t get it right, but he likes my interpretation. He nods.

“Oleg, I—”

He stops my words with a finger on my lips then repeats the gesture, reversing it.

“You belong to me?” His lips tip up again. He nods.

I can’t stop staring at him. He looks so transformed with the small smile. Much younger. So warm.

He belongs to me. One part of me wants to reject that gift. Because believing it’s something I can count on is irrational. I know love doesn’t last. People don’t stick. We just do the best they can as we all muddle through life.

That’s what Oleg and I are doing right now. And it’s a precious moment, despite—no, because of the drama surrounding it.

I want to believe what he’s telling me. That this sturdy, steady man will always be there for me. Always and forever. Something I’ve never had with anyone in my life.

Maybe it could really be true.

Chapter 10

Oleg

I pass out for the rest of the afternoon, falling in and out of feverish dreams. The worst kind—the type that picks up right where real life left off, so I can’t be sure if they’re really happening or not. I know Natasha came back to check on my wound and change the poultice. Dima stood behind her like her bodyguard. Or maybe that was a dream, too.

In one dream, Story walks out of the Kremlin while I’m asleep, and the bearded asshole from Rue’s guns her down in cold blood.

In another, Skal’pel’ operates on her, removing her tongue, too, so she can never sing again.

Then he’s here in my bedroom with a gun on her. I jerk awake, a hoarse cry coming from my lips. I lunge for my gun in my nightstand.

“Hey.” Story’s voice cuts across the room. “Are you okay?” She’s curled up in a chair by the big windows, her guitar across her thighs.

I release my grip on the gun before she can see it, my pulse racing. Blyad’. What if I’d pointed it at her before I got my head on straight? The thought does nothing to calm my pounding heart.

Story puts the guitar down and comes to the bed. She has a way of moving that’s more childlike than sultry-woman. She skips steps. Leaps onto the bed with a bounce instead of crawling. It’s part of what makes her so fascinating to me. She yanks the covers back and tucks her legs into the bed to sit with me then shoves the iPad Dima brought me under my nose.

I stare at it for a moment, remembering what I’m supposed to be doing with it.

I had a bad dream, I type. The Australian mudak speaks the words to her.

“What about?” she asks.

I point at her. I dreamed he cut your tongue out, too.

Fuck. I feel so raw and exposed giving voice to my nightmare, but Story’s been demanding communication from me.

“Scalpel?” she asks.

I nod.

“What was he to you?” Her brown eyes search my face.

Damn. I haven’t told this story before, not that I ever talk about my past. But Story, of course, deserves to know. I frown over the letters, using both index fingers to hunt and peck.

When I was fourteen, my mother took a housekeeping job with a wealthy plastic surgeon named Andrusha Orlov. I sometimes helped my mother after school, and the doctor took a liking to me. He paid me to do odd jobs for him and took a fatherly