The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,8
into the building.
It takes forever to get him up three flights of stairs. I’m nearly in tears the whole time because he’s in a ton of pain, a little groan escaping him with each hard jostle. Thankfully, none of my neighbors pick this time to go up or down the stairs because I’d have a hard time explaining. And somehow, I get the feeling that whatever happened to Oleg isn’t something he wants the authorities to know about.
When we get to the last flight of stairs, Oleg faceplants against the wall when he loses his balance.
I cry out for him and grab his arm tight. “Oleg, you can do it. We’re almost there. This is my floor. Just a few more steps.”
He hobbles up them, and I push open the door.
“Come here.” I bring him into the bathroom. “I need to get you cleaned up.”
He leans against the door like he’s weak. No—like he’s dizzy.
“Did you get hit on the head?”
He reaches his hand behind his head and winces when his fingers touch it.
“Oleg,” I moan. This time the tears spill.
Oleg’s head jerks up when I sniff and alarm passes over his expression. He reaches out, his thumb roughly wiping a tear from my cheek.
“No—it’s okay. I’m just crying for you. I don’t know what happened, and I’m scared for you. And I feel bad that you’re hurting.”
Oleg’s brows knit. He’s breathing hard from the trek up the stairs. He catches my face in both his hands and brings his forehead down to mine. We pant together, our breath mingling. His skin is cold against mine. God, he must have hypothermia by now!
After a moment, after his breathing slows, he presses his lips to my forehead.
I blink rapidly, still fighting off the urge to cry. “Let’s get you out of these bloody jeans.” I unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper.
He leans his hip against the bathroom cabinet—I’m guessing because he can’t stand up on his own—and lets me pull them down. He doesn’t hiss or flinch when I get to his wound, but I’m sure it hurts.
A chunk of flesh seems to be missing. There’s a hole in his jeans above it. “What caused this? A bullet?”
Oleg doesn’t confirm with a nod or shake, but I’m sure I’m right. Not that I’ve seen a bullet wound before, but this has to be what it is.
“I think you got lucky,” I tell him. I don’t think the bullet hit anything. I doubt it’s still inside him. It seems like it just nicked the side of his leg.
His jeans are sticky and stiff with blood, which makes them harder to remove, but I manage to get them down to his feet, then I help him toe out of his boots, so I can get them all the way off.
“Um, I’m thinking of a bath to clean the blood off and warm you up.” I look at the wound. Maybe that’s a bad idea. “Or does that sound terrible?”
He takes off his jacket and shirt, which I take to mean he’s on board.
I turn on warm water and plug the drain then help him get his shirt off.
His chest is gorgeous—a solid muscle dusted with hair and covered in tattoos. They creep up his neck and all the way down his arms. They’re markings of some kind. A rose on his chest. A manacle on one wrist. A dagger with drops of blood. If I didn’t know with total certainty that Oleg is safe for me, I would find his appearance intimidating. I imagine that’s what he’s going for.
I want to trace the lines of every one of them and find out what they mean, but now’s not the time. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pull them down to the floor.
Oleg’s cock lengthens before my eyes, and I try to ignore it. It’s a beautiful hard-on, but this is so not the right time.
I take his big arm to help him to the bathtub. He steps into the water carefully, throwing a hand out to catch the wall, like he got dizzy again, and then slowly sinks into the water with a groan.
“Oleg,” I whisper brokenly.
I could never be a nurse. It freaking kills me to see him damaged like this. I feel dizzy and woozy just watching him deal with it. Like my body experiences his pain.
He leans his head back against the tile and closes his eyes. I’m not sure if he passed