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The two sets of eyes flickered, overlapping, chaotic, ripping me apart.

BANG!

A bullet hit the concrete pillar behind me, debris grazing my cheek, the sting snapping me back. But I was still frozen, PTSD trapping me in a cage of terror.

Gennady spun, his sharp green eyes catching me at the elevator. Shock, disbelief, then raw fury flashed across his face.

"Fuck!" he cursed under his breath.

Another shot, closer now. I saw the muzzle flash, heard the bullet's whine.

In a heartbeat, his body slammed into mine, knocking me to the cold floor. He shielded me, his head buried in my neck, his hot breath against my skin. A bullet whistled overhead, smashing into the elevator door with a deafening clang.

"Stay down!" he growled in my ear, his voice a mix of command and fear. "They're right there!"

Something warm dripped onto my face, the metallic tang of blood hitting my nose. My vision cleared, the ghost of my father's face fading, replaced by Gennady's. His brow was furrowed in pain, sweat beading on his forehead, but those green eyes were still fierce, locked on me with worry.

My gaze shifted to his shoulder—a deep, bloody gash.

I gasped, reality crashing back. "You're hurt!" My voice shook, barely coherent.

For a split second, relief flickered in his eyes as I snapped out of it, but it was gone fast, replaced by sharp vigilance. "Just agraze," he said, his voice cold, but his arms tightened around me. "We're getting out of here."

More gunshots, rapid, deadly. He hauled me up, half-dragging, half-carrying me to a nearby concrete barrier. The air was thick with smoke and blood, the garage a battlefield. His body was tense, muscles coiled like a spring, his heartbeat pounding against mine, a wild duet in that death-soaked chaos.

Under his protection, we made it out, bursting into blinding sunlight. But there was no warmth in it. My body was still shaking, every breath laced with gunpowder and blood. Something had changed—broken—inside me.

Fear, like icy vines, wrapped around my heart, sinking deep roots.

I had seen Gennady's world now.

And it was way darker, way deadlier, than I had ever imagined.

Chapter 11

Gennady

The car rumbled toward the estate, the air inside thick with a cold, heavy silence. The engine's low growl was the only sound, save for the thud of my own heartbeat, heavy as a drum in my chest.

I glanced at Cassie through the rearview mirror. She was curled up in the backseat, her face pale as a ghost, her eyes still wide with the shock of the gunfire we'd just escaped. That hollow, lost look in her eyes twisted something deep in my gut. Why the hell did she react like that to the gunshots? It wasn't just fear—it was something deeper, something raw.

But what really got under my skin was the way she looked at me now. Gone was the starry-eyed admiration, the soft crush she'd had on me. Now, her gaze was layered with something I couldn't quite read—fear? Confusion? Or maybe she was finally seeing me for what I was. Fuck. She wasn't supposed to be there. She wasn't supposed to see that side of my world.

"Gennady," her voice came out soft, trembling like a leaf in the wind, "your wound…"

"I told you, it's just a graze," I snapped, sharper than I meant to. My fear—for her safety, for losing her—made my words come out like a blade.

She didn't say another word, just pressed her face closer to the cold window, like she could shrink into it and hide from everything. From me. From the blood and chaos she'd just witnessed. The sight of her like that made my chest ache.

The estate's medical room was ready when we arrived, the air sterile and sharp with the smell of antiseptic. Aisor, my old butler and private doc, was already waiting, his calm professionalism a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.

"Mr. Sokolov, please remove your shirt," Aisor said, his voice steady, like he'd stitched up a hundred wounds like mine before. He probably had.

I yanked off my blood-soaked shirt, the fabric tearing at the wound and sending a sharp jolt of pain through my shoulder. It was nothing compared to the irritation clawing at my insides. As Aisor started cleaning the gash, the door creaked open, and Cassie slipped inside.

She froze in the doorway, her face still pale, her eyes flicking to the bloody cotton in Aisor's hand and the ugly wound on my shoulder. For a second, I thought she'd bolt.

"Miss, if you're feeling unwell, you can wait outside," Aisor offered, his tone kind but firm.