Chapter 21: Beautiful Scar: Chapter 21

The doctor snaps a rubber glove off his hand and wipes his forehead with a towel. “He’s lucky, honestly. Your husband’s a shockingly resilient man.”

Terror wars in my gut. I can barely stand still as I watch the doctor put away his tools. I’ve been waiting in Tigran’s living area while he got put back together in the bedroom, and staying out here has been like spending an eternity in hell.

“He’s going to be okay?”

“Eventually.” The doctor sighs and sits back in a chair. “He’s got a cracked rib and a nasty stab wound on his forearm. That took a solid twenty stitches to put back together. He lost a fair amount of blood, but with rest and liquids, he’ll be fine. The bullet went in on his right side, traveled along his ribs, and exited the back. Honestly, a little bit to the left and it would’ve punctured a lung.”

“But he’s going to be okay?” I repeat, feeling sick to my stomach. I’ve already thrown up twice today, and I don’t understand why. Nothing was wrong this morning, and I still puked until the nausea just suddenly disappeared.

“He’s going to be okay.” The doctor pushes himself to his feet. “He was asking for you. Just please, be careful, okay?”

I brush past him and run to the bedroom. I throw open the door and find my husband sitting up in bed, awake and pale, grinning at me as I hurry to his side.

“You look worse than I do,” he murmurs as I take his hand in mine, press the rough skin to my mouth, and start crying.

It comes out of me in waves. The relief is so painful. I was terrified I lost him when Vito came to my room and told me what was happening. I don’t even know how this happened, and it doesn’t even matter. All I kept thinking about was a life with Tigran gone, and it seemed empty, flat, and worthless.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” I say, barely getting myself under control enough to scold him.

He laughs lightly, then stops as he grimaces in pain. “Sorry, baby, but there’s only one twin down. I’ve still got one more to go.”

That only makes me cry more. The thought of him going out there to kill again? It’s maddening and pure horror.

“Didn’t know you cared so much,” he mumbles when I finally get control of myself again.

“Of course I care.”

“Here’s me thinking I was just a good lay.”

“Well, you’re that too.”

He smooths my hair and motions me close. I lean up and let him kiss me lightly. “I wouldn’t leave you, baby. Not for anything.”

I stay next to him. We don’t speak for a few minutes. I listen to his breathing and lean my forehead against his neck, breathing in the smell of blood and sweat. I could stay here forever by his side, on my knees next to his bed, leaning into his warm body as his hands gently stroke down my back.

If this is what our marriage is going to be like, I have no clue how I’ll survive it.

“Are you two all right in here?” Vito appears in the doorway. He looks drawn, tired, and concerned, but some of that eases when Tigran greets him.

“I think my wife’s feeling worse than I am,” he comments.

“I don’t know. You look like shit.”

Tigran coughs and grins viciously. “You should see Ciaran.”

“It’s done then?” Vito nods to himself and looks toward the windows. “I suppose that explains it.”

“Explains what?” There’s an edge to Tigran’s voice, and his smile is totally gone. I change positions so I’m holding his hand while Vito shuffles into the room.

“Alexan gave me these.” He places several photographs down in Tigran’s lap. “He found them in the spare room.”

Tigran slowly raises one up, and my throat constricts with fear.

It’s a picture of me. It was taken through a window. The image is blurry, like it was taken far away, but I recognize the kitchen. I’m smiling and saying something.

There are more photos. They’re all of me. Glimpses of me through windows. Some caught me looking out at the street, while others have me passing like a ghost. There are six of them in all.

“They’ve been fucking watching.” Tigran throws one photo onto the floor in rage. He grimaces in pain and tries to sit up, but I push him back.

“You just got shot and stabbed. You’re not going anywhere.”

“They’ve been stalking my fucking wife,” he says, his tone cold and filled with savage rage.

“We can’t do anything about it right now.” I keep my hands on his chest, holding him against the bed. Fear and revulsion skitter down my spine like the legs of hungry roaches.

The idea of people taking pictures of me through the stinking windows is horrifying.

My room is supposed to be a safe space. But nothing’s safe anymore.

“She’s right,” Vito says softly as he gathers up the photos. “I’ve already increased security. Alexan says he’ll personally make sure nobody’s nearby. He thinks he knows where they’ve been watching from, based on the angles.” Vito smiles slightly and raps the photos against one knee. “The young man has a very good eye.”

Tigran blows out and grimaces as he looks at the ceiling. It’s obvious he hates this. I bet if I weren’t here, he’d already be out of bed storming around the house, barking orders and ripping all his stitches.

“We’ll have to give him a promotion,” Tigran says at last. “He saved my life.”

“I suspect you’re right, but that can wait. For now, listen to your wife and stay in bed.” Vito hesitates at the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” I say before he can answer. “My husband and I are going to bed now. Thank you, Vito.”

“The doctor left some antibiotics, pain medication, and a sleep aid. It’s all on the dresser.” Vito nods at me and disappears, lightly shutting the door behind him.

I busy myself taking stock of his pill regimen. That’s better than thinking about some creepy Irish killer photographing me through the windows.

My world’s an upside-down mess. It’s not supposed to be like this. I blink back tears, fighting to stay in control. Home should be safe. My room should be my sanctuary.

They shouldn’t get to me here.

Except they’re trying anyway.

“Pisik, listen to me,” Tigran says, his voice raspy and tired.

I talk over him. “You need to take these three now. Then the antibiotic is four times a day for ten days. I’ll set alarms to remind you. The pain pills can be taken every six hours⁠—”

“Dasha,” he says, sharper now.

I don’t look at him. I keep my chin up and my back straight. Act prim, act correct. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.

“Baby.” His tone softens. “Listen to me.”

“Please, just take your pills.”

“I want you to sleep with me tonight. Will you do that for me?”

My shoulders tense. I can’t look at him. Tears fill my eyes again, but I shove them back. A good girl doesn’t cry. A proper lady keeps it together.

But I’m not proper. I’m not good. I’m a fucking wreck and barely holding on.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Please, baby. I need you tonight.” He reaches out a hand.

I put the pills in his palm, blinking away my tears and swallowing against them. “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Just for tonight,” he says, taking his medication without any water. “Now, please, baby, come into bed with me.”

I finally let go. I crawl in beside him, slipping under the covers, and curl up at his side. He grunts as he reaches over to the light switch beside the headboard and snaps it off.

The room plunges into darkness.

I listen to him breathing as I snuggle in closer to his warmth. They’re outside. They’re trying to break in. All my safety is gone. It was never real to begin with.

“I got you,” he whispers in the blackness, pulling me back to him. “And you have me. We’re in this together, right, baby?”

I nod against him. I can’t speak, or else I might cry, which is so pathetic.

He’s the one that got shot, so why is he the one doing the comforting?

I need to be stronger for him. Even if I feel like the foundation on which I’ve built my entire life is melting away, there’s still Tigran, his strong hands, his steady chest. I can hold on to him and give him something to hold on to in return.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, holding me close. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too,” I say, leaning up to kiss his chin.

He smiles, eyelids heavy and drooping, as the medicine does its work and drags him into sleep. I stay awake a while longer in a strange bed in a strange room, listening to my strange husband take rattling breaths and wonder when the outside will crack through my shell and swallow me whole.

Then, almost as I’m about to drift off, he makes a sound. I lean closer to him, listening. “Tigran?” I whisper, reaching up to touch his face.

He lets out a soft groan. It’s obvious he’s still asleep; the pills must’ve been stronger than we thought.

But he says it again. And this time, I hear it clearly.

“Natalia,” he whispers.

I go very still. The room feels small.

Who the hell is Natalia?