Yan bursts into laughter, but Ilya looks suitably worried. “All right, all right,” he mutters and starts toward the combatants.
I exhale in relief as he bravely wades into the fray, but neither Peter nor Anton respond well to his attempts to pry them apart. Before long, all three men are rolling on the ground, exchanging brutal blows, and when I turn to Yan, he holds up his hands, palms facing out.
“I’m not going near there,” he says, and I know he means it.
I’m on my own.
Desperate, I consider hosing them down with cold water, but decide to go for a more expedient solution.
“Help,” I yell at the top of my lungs and bend over, as though in pain. “Owww! Peter, help!”
It works even better than I expected. The men instantly spring apart, and Peter jumps to his feet, the fury on his face transforming into frantic worry as he rushes toward me. “What happened?” he demands, gripping my hands as his eyes scan me from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes, by you acting like a barbarian,” I snap, trying to pull away as he starts a full-blown pat-down. “Now let me go so I can see how badly you’ve damaged each other.”
His eyebrows pull together as he pauses. “You’re not hurt? You just wanted to stop the fight?”
“Of course. How would I get hurt?” I ignore Yan, who’s laughing so hard he can’t stand up straight, and head toward Anton and Ilya, who look much worse for the wear than Peter. Ilya has a split lip, and Anton’s face is already swelling up, his bleeding nose slightly off-center.
“Hey.” Peter catches my wrist before I can take more than two steps. “You’re going to treat them first?” He sounds so outraged I’m tempted to deny it—the last thing I want is to provoke another fight—but some devil makes me nod.
“They did not attack themselves.” I tug at my wrist in a futile attempt to get free. “And you don’t look hurt to me.”
If Peter thinks I’m going to reward caveman behavior with tender nursing, he’s very much mistaken.
His frown deepens, and he has the gall to look wounded as he releases my wrist. “I am hurt. See?” He tugs up his shirt to show me a red spot on his ribcage. “And this.” He displays the back of his right hand, where the knuckles are indeed beginning to look swollen.
Despite my anger, my healer’s instincts kick in. “Let me see.” Carefully, I feel around his torso—it’ll be a nasty bruise, but his ribs seem okay—and then turn my attention to his knuckles.
“Does this hurt?” I ask, pressing on the middle knuckle. Peter shakes his head, silver eyes gleaming, so I examine the rest of his hand. To my relief, I don’t feel any broken bones.
“You’ll be okay,” I say, then notice a bleeding scrape by his left ear. I’ll have to clean it in the house, where I have medical supplies, but first, I need to see about Anton’s nose and make sure Ilya didn’t get another concussion.
The guys have already gone inside, so I follow them in, ignoring Peter’s dark expression. I don’t understand what got into him. I know he’s possessive, but Anton is Peter’s friend, and as far as I can tell, he’s never acted inappropriately toward me. Nor have any of the others, though they’re virile, healthy men who’ve been without female companionship for months.
My bravado lasts until I get into the kitchen and see the extent of damage done to Anton’s face. Peter wasn’t joking about breaking every bone; he didn’t succeed, but he made a very good attempt. With the violence flaring up so suddenly, I didn’t have a chance to process the stunning brutality of the fight, but as I work to put Anton’s nose back in place, my hands begin to shake, the adrenaline spike aftermath hitting me as hard as if I’d been the one in the fight.
I’ve become complacent in the last few weeks, let all the domesticity lull me into forgetting what Peter and his men are. This wasn’t a drunken brawl at a bar, where someone might land a lucky hit or two. Peter is a trained assassin, and he went after his friend with the intent of inflicting serious damage. If I hadn’t broken up the fight, someone could’ve gotten badly hurt—killed, even.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as Anton winces at the pain of my ministrations. “I’m so sorry about this.”
“It’s okay.” His voice turns nasal as I stuff cotton into his nostrils to stop the bleeding. “Was bound to happen; bastard’s too crazy about you.” There’s no rancor in his tone; if anything, he sounds amused by his friend’s attempt to maim him out of misplaced jealousy.
“That’s right,” Peter growls, coming to stand next to me. “So do not f*cking stare at her. Ever. Got it?”
To my shock, Anton’s swollen mouth curves in a bloody smile. “Got it, you crazy f*cking ass*ole.”
I stop what I’m doing, my gaze swinging incredulously from one man to the other. Am I hallucinating, or did they just make up?
Sure enough, Peter slaps his friend’s shoulder and turns to Ilya, who’s perched on a barstool next to us, holding an ice pack against his lip. “Same goes for you and”—he gives Yan, who just joined us, a dark glare—“you.”
Both brothers nod, and Ilya says, “Got it. She’s all yours.”
Ignoring that atavistic statement, I finish taping Anton’s broken nose, give him ice packs to apply all over his face, and reach for his shirt to examine his ribcage.
“I’m fine there,” he says nasally, stopping me before I can lift the shirt more than an inch. With a wary look at Peter, he adds, “You can take a look at Ilya now, if you want.”
I frown but turn to Ilya as suggested. “Let me see this,” I say, moving the ice pack away from his lip. “Did you get hit anywhere else in the head?”
“No, just this,” Ilya says, wincing as I feel around his swollen jaw.
“All right,” I say when I conclude my examination. “You don’t have a concussion, but you still have to take it easy. Blows to the head aren’t good for your brain—just ask all the NFL players.”
“Yes, Dr. Cobakis.” Ilya smiles as much as his split lip allows. “I’ll be careful.”
I smile back at him, ignoring a snort from his brother, and then turn to Peter, who still appears to be in a dark mood.
“Let me see this,” I say, tugging him down on another barstool so I can reach the top of his ear. “Looks like you scraped some skin off there.”
Peter sits still, letting me clean and bandage the scrape before examining him for more minor injuries. By the time I’m done, my hands are steady again, the familiar work lessening the lingering shock from the explosion of violence.
Unfortunately, my newfound calm doesn’t last long. The second I put away all the medical supplies, Peter hops off the barstool and bends down to pick me up. Ignoring my startled squeak and the guys’ ribald wolf calls, he lifts me into his arms and claims my mouth with a deep, fiercely hungry kiss.
Then, holding me pressed against his chest like the prize of war he believes me to be, he heads toward the stairs.
35
Peter
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