NIKOLAI
PAIN.
IT WAS the first thing I registered—a deep, biting ache that pulsed through my shoulder and stomach, like someone had ripped me open and stitched me back together with dull, rusted wire. My body felt stiff, my limbs weighed down, as if lead had been poured into my veins.
I cracked my eyes open.
The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, painting familiar shapes in gold and black. My bedroom. My space. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and blood—mine.
I inhaled slowly, controlling my breath, even as irritation curled hot in my chest.
I was alive.
Barely.
The door creaked open.
My gaze snapped to the movement, sharp, alert, tracking Andrei as he stepped inside. His presence meant only one thing—I’d been out too long
