Elara inhaled sharply and crouched beside him, hands trembling slightly as she reached for the first aid kit. Her heart hammered in her chest, and the sheer amount of blood already soaking Nikolai's side made her dizzy, but she shook it off. She couldn't panic now. He needed her.
Nikolai gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. "Don't go too deep," he said, voice strained. "Angle it. You'll feel it when you hit the metal."
She held the scalpel hesitantly and gave him a panicked glance. "You're insane," she muttered. "Absolutely fucking insane. Who removes a bullet from themselves like this? You should be in a hospital."
"Hospitals ask questions. Questions bring trouble," he hissed, one hand clenching into the fabric of the couch. "I've done this before."
"To yourself?"
"Mostly to others. But once or twice, yeah."
Elara felt bile rise in her throat. This was the man she loved—bleeding, broken, and far too used to pain. And yet, even now, he was instructing her like this was normal. Like this kind of pain was just another Tuesday.
"Okay," she murmured, trying to steel her nerves. She picked up the antiseptic and soaked a cotton pad, pressing it to the wound. Nikolai flinched and grunted low in his throat.
"I have to clean it," she said gently.
"Just do it fast," he gritted out.
Elara nodded. She poured more antiseptic over the wound, watching the blood and fluid run down his toned abdomen, his muscles twitching beneath her fingers. She reached for the tweezers, and with the scalpel in her other hand, she carefully started making a small incision around the already torn flesh.
Nikolai groaned, low and guttural. "Not there," he hissed. "You're too deep. Angle more upward. It's lodged closer to the surface than that."
Elara quickly adjusted, her hands sweating but steady. "Jesus, Nikolai, what even happened? Who shot you?"
He gave a strained chuckle. "Occupational hazard."
"This occupation is killing you," she snapped, blinking back the burn of tears. She couldn't cry now. Not when she had her fingers inside a bullet wound.
"Don't get soft on me now, solnishka," he murmured, his voice cracking.
"I'm not," she said, though her voice betrayed her. "I just… you can't keep doing this. Living like this."
She felt the edge of something hard with the tweezers and paused. "I think I found it."
"Good. Pull it out slowly. Twist if you have to."
"You are not human," she whispered, shaking her head. She gripped the bullet with the tweezers and slowly, carefully began to pull. Nikolai stiffened, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack.
"Almost there," she murmured, adjusting the grip.
With a final twist, the bullet slid free, slick with blood. Elara stared at it for a second before dropping it into the small metal tray. She didn't realize she was crying until a tear hit her wrist.
"Got it," she said softly.
Nikolai collapsed back against the couch, his breathing ragged.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Stitch it. There's thread and needle in the kit."
She hesitated. "I've never done stitches before."
"I'll talk you through it."
So she did. Under his instruction, she cleaned the wound again, threaded the needle, and made her first stitch with shaking hands. He flinched, cursed, and told her to keep going.
By the time she finished the last stitch, she was pale, her hands stained red. But the bleeding had stopped. The bullet was out.
Elara sat back on her heels, her body trembling. "I can't believe we just did that."
Nikolai opened his eyes and looked at her. "You did good, solnishka."
She let out a choked laugh. "Don't call me that right now. I just helped you commit a felony on your own body."
He grinned weakly. "Better than bleeding out alone."
Elara stood slowly. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."
Elara's arms trembled slightly as she helped Nikolai up from the couch, her fingers curled around his forearm, the warm tacky feel of drying blood clinging to her skin like guilt. He winced, hissing through his teeth as he rose, leaning into her touch, though he pretended not to.
"You know," he muttered, a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, "you don't need to do this. I've walked around and fought with a fresh wound worse than this one."
Elara rolled her eyes as she adjusted her grip, slipping her arm around his waist, careful to avoid his injured side. "I hate you," she muttered under her breath, "but that doesn't mean I'll let you bleed out in front of me."
She paused as they moved through the dimly lit hallway, her breath shallow with exhaustion, his weight pressing on her just enough to feel heavy—more from emotion than from mass. "You need to stay alive, okay?" she added, voice low. "I can't be hating and loving a dead person. That would just be... cruel."
Nikolai gave a weak laugh, breath shaky from pain. "Don't worry," he said, the words soft, yet carrying an odd certainty. "I will never die as long as you're alive. I'll keep fighting, even if I'm barely crawling. Because if I die, this world—my world—it'll try to eat you alive."
They reached his bedroom, the door slightly ajar from earlier. She nudged it open with her foot and guided him slowly to the bed. The sheets were rumpled from the restless night he'd had, the pillow dented in the center like a ghost had lingered there.
"I've survived worse than this," Nikolai added, lowering himself down with a stifled groan. "I've been in a coma before. Thought I wouldn't wake up, but I made it. So trust me."
Elara gently helped him lower his body onto the mattress, her movements deliberate and slow. The moment he was finally lying down, his back pressed to the mattress and his breathing still erratic, she pulled the blanket up and tucked it around his waist.
She didn't respond at first. Instead, she sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. Her fingers nervously brushed against the hem of her shirt as she stared straight ahead, eyes glassy but stubbornly dry.
"You say it like it's normal," she finally whispered, her voice roughened by emotion. "Like getting hurt, being shot at, stitched up on your living room couch... like that's okay. It's not okay, Nikolai. This isn't a life. Not one that anyone should want to live."
He turned his head, just enough to look at her. His eyes were tired but warm, and a part of her hated how that warmth still reached her even now.
"I'm used to it," he said simply. "That's why I fight. So you won't have to be exposed to it like I am."
Elara shook her head, her jaw clenched. "Just leave it."
"I can't," he said after a pause, his voice firm, the finality in it heavier than the air between them. "I was born and bred by the Bratva. This—this life—it's not something I can walk away from. It's a family business."
"Family business, my ass," Elara snapped, her voice breaking at the edges. She stood up, wiping a hand across her face. "There's nothing normal or noble about what you do. About this—this empire built on blood and control and fear."
She turned her back to him, needing to breathe without his eyes on her. The digital clock on the wall glowed in the shadows—3:04 AM. Her shoulders sagged. "You should rest," she murmured, "and I need to do the same. I have work tomorrow. Or today, I guess."
She began to walk away, already feeling the weight of the long day ahead pressing down on her neck.
"Sleep next to me," he said, his voice low and sudden, a quiet plea that stopped her in her tracks.
Elara turned around slowly, her arms folding over her chest. "No," she said simply, shaking her head. "I can't."
Nikolai didn't argue. He looked away, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face. He didn't plead. He didn't try to pull her back like he usually did. He just nodded.
And somehow, that quiet acceptance stung worse than anything.
She stared at him for a long moment, taking in the vulnerability that hung around him like smoke—his bare chest still blood-stained, the fresh wound now patched, his breath heavy but steadier than before. He didn't look like the monster people whispered about. He looked like a man—her man, once—just broken and bleeding and too tangled in a world that didn't allow softness.
"Elara," he said softly, eyes still averted, "I don't expect forgiveness. But I need you to know… it wasn't just survival for me. It never was. From the moment I saw you, it stopped being about just getting by. I wanted more. I wanted peace, and I thought maybe… maybe with you, I could have both."
Her heart clenched. A lump rose in her throat, thick and suffocating.
"Nik," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"You don't have to love me the way I love you," he continued, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "I just want you to be safe. Even if you hate me for how I protect you."
She didn't reply. Not with words.
Instead, she turned and walked toward the door. She stood there for a moment, her fingers gripping the frame, and then—without turning around—she said, "Goodnight, Nikolai."
And then she walked out.
The door closed gently behind her, but to Nikolai, it sounded like the final click of a lock he didn't know how to open.
He closed his eyes, the ache in his side a dull throb compared to the hollow ache in his chest.
In the guest room, Elara lay down on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unable to sleep, unable to stop the tears that silently slid down her cheeks.
The war inside her raged on.