The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

“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 out or not. Whether I should wake him. Don’t they say with concussions, you should keep the person awake? Of course, I found him unconscious in the van, so that train probably already boarded.

The water turns an orange-pink from the blood. I get a washcloth to clean off his leg, gently wiping around the wound, but avoiding touching it. I will pour alcohol on it when he gets out.

I’m on my knees beside the bath, all wrapped up in trying to figure out what to do for him when his hand settles on my back. I look up and find his lids open by a fraction. He strokes my hip.

He’s soothing me. Or maybe thanking me. It’s hard to be sure. I guess it doesn’t matter—the energy is the same.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” I say, my voice getting rough at the end. “I hope it wasn’t because you drove me home.”

He shakes his head, and his fingers squeeze my side.

“Do you know who did this to you?”

His gaze shifts to the tile wall. He’s ignoring my question. I get the feeling he does that a lot. Being mute lets him opt out of conversation.

A loud jangle from the floor startles me. It’s Oleg’s phone. His expression registers alarm. I lunge for it, thinking it might be important and find it in his jeans pocket.

The screen reads something in Russian letters. “Do you want to get this?”

He snatches it from my hand, and I think it must be important, but then he smashes the phone against the lip of the tub three times until it shatters into dozens of pieces.

My mouth drops open, and I jerk back at the sudden violence of the movement.

Oleg notices and holds up his hands, as if to show he’s no threat to me.

“Jesus,” I whisper, still shocked. “What’s going on?”

He catches my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my fingers softly before letting it go. That’s a thank you. Or maybe an apology. He’s showing me there will be no violence toward me.

I pull his hand to my own mouth and return the gesture. “I’m going to get you some ibuprofen, okay? Are you all right here?”

He nods.

I do a quick safety check and decide he’s too big to drown in the tub, even if he passes out while I’m gone, then leave.

When I come back, I bring a glass of blueberry juice I had in the refrigerator because I figure he probably hasn’t put anything in his belly since the beer he drank last night.

He seems to be passed out again.

“Oleg?”

He doesn’t stir. His head lols to the side like he’s out cold.

I set the juice and ibuprofen down on the counter, my heart picking up speed again. “Oleg? Are you okay?” I put one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his face and lifting it upright.

He makes a sound, but it seems to take great effort for him to open his eyes. When he does, it takes a while for him to focus on my face.

I check the back of his head, where he rubbed before. He doesn’t have a huge bump, but there is a two-inch cut, as if whatever hit him struck so hard it split the skin on impact. I feel like I’ve heard that where concussions are involved, you want to have a goose egg. The lack of a goose egg is more of a problem.