Chapter 50

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Because the fight had occurred nearby, the road back to Cherriot was mercifully short.

Soon, the forest path leading toward the cottage emerged from the dark. Yuri parked near the entrance, secured his own gun along with the pistol he had scavenged from Marty at his waist, and began the walk toward the lake.

The cottage’s proximity to the water offered a crucial chance to clean up; arriving drenched in blood would only terrify Cherriot. Reaching the shore, Yuri plunged his hands into the icy water. Dark red fluid had dried across his pale skin, smeared deep into the lines of his palms from his frantic attempts to stanch his wounds.

He tried to inventory his injuries. His side, certainly. His throat, perhaps? The pain had long since melded into a dull roar, making individual sources impossible to isolate.

Shrugging off his coat, he scrubbed away every trace of crimson he could reach. Fortunately, his trousers were black; denim would have been ruined by the blood pooling at his waist. Black clothing really is convenient, he mused, reaffirming his old belief that white simply did not suit him.

Perhaps he had ruined the shirt because he had dared to wear something too pure for his station. The white cotton he had meant to protect and return to Cherriot was now saturated with his own blood. The loss stung, though not as deeply as watching Alexei suffer for Valeri had. Still, it hurt.

With a grimace, Yuri retrieved Cherriot’s shirt from the vehicle and submerged the fabric, trying to rinse at least some of the stains away. He succeeded only in watching the red bleed out until the entire garment was ruined. He pulled it from the water with a heavy sigh—a brief lapse in judgment carried a heavy cost.

Wringing out the heavy, wet fabric, Yuri returned to the car. The damp coat felt miserable against his skin, but the thought of the man waiting for him made the discomfort bearable.

I want to see you. Once I see you smile… I think everything will be all right.

Making Cherriot smile would take effort, but Yuri hoped the beer would provide the necessary nudge. He grabbed the six-pack from the passenger seat, checked his pistol one last time, and locked the stolen vehicle. Even if they intended to abandon the area soon, the car might hold a GPS tracker; parking it far from the cottage was a necessary precaution.

Ten minutes later, Yuri finally spotted the light. The cottage windows glowed with a warm, orange hue, bringing a faint, unbidden smile to his lips—until he noticed the unfamiliar vehicle parked nearby.

…What is that?

The smile vanished. Yuri studied the car with cold, sharpened eyes. It was a black Toyota RAV4, a common Canadian model with an Alberta license plate. It lacked the ominous aura of the mercenaries’ vehicles, but its presence remained a threat. The security team Cherriot had summoned wasn’t due yet.

Gooseflesh rose on his arms; his heart hammered against his ribs. Had someone from Cherriot’s family arrived? What if it was the person behind the contract?

His hands and feet went ice-cold as dark memories of his past descended. Returning home to find the house destroyed. Men dragging his parents away. Everything that followed.

His throat tightened, the world spinning. Forcing past the momentary paralysis, Yuri drew his pistol and took several deep breaths, forcing his mind to rationalize.

No. The person trying to kill Cherriot doesn’t know his precise location. If they had the address, the men I just fought would have been sent straight here. He’s all right.

Please. Let nothing have happened. If I lose someone I want to protect before my eyes again, I…

Yuri widened his eyes, silenced his breathing, and approached the cottage with predatory caution. He checked the window traps he had installed; none had been disturbed. The front door remained undamaged. Deciding against a frontal entry, he circled toward the rear curtains.

SWOOSH.

The instant he rounded the corner, the scent of cigarette smoke hit him. Yuri raised the pistol, aiming blindly into the shadows.

“Well now.”

A figure hidden within the haze released a soft chuckle and raised both hands. It was a woman’s voice.

“What a situation. I only came outside to walk by the lake and smoke. Do you live here, young man? Greeting your neighbors this way could cause an accident.”

The voice belonged to a woman well into her autumn years. Hearing a voice so entirely unexpected, Yuri hesitated, his finger easing from the trigger. In that split-second lapse, a flake of hot cigarette ash flicked against his eyelid. He narrowed his eyes against the sting.

CLICK.

His stomach dropped. A fatal error—that was the unmistakable sound of a shotgun racking.

“You should never make the foolish mistake of lowering your guard merely because your opponent is an old woman, young bodyguard.”

The smoke dispersed, revealing the stranger. As expected, the shotgun’s barrel was trained squarely on his chest. At this distance, a blast would end him instantly.

“If you intend to protect our Cherry, you can’t let something this small distract you.”

The casual affection in her nickname for Cherriot disarmed him completely. Yuri realized instantly she was not an enemy. His face, which a moment ago held the resolve to blow her head apart even if she shot him first, slowly relaxed. The shotgun lowered in tandem, and Yuri holstered his pistol.

Her unusual appearance made her exact age difficult to judge. Long, wavy hair, bleached entirely white, fell around her shoulders. She wore a denim jacket, boot-cut trousers, and a pistol holster at her waist, a gold pendant gleaming over her white shirt. Her lined face held little expression, her mouth set in a stubborn, straight line.

Yuri felt a distinct jolt of recognition. “Are you Dolly?”

“Oh.” Amusement flickered across Dolly’s impassive face—the mischievous smile of a troublesome grandmother. “Did Cherry tell you about me? That’s interesting.”

“…Is Cherriot all right?”

Dolly evaluated him from head to toe, her gaze lingering meaningfully before she nodded. “He’s inside crying because his runaway bodyguard hasn’t come home.” She flicked her chin toward the beer in Yuri’s hand. “He’s been waiting for that, too.”

Ah. Thank God.

The moment Yuri realized Cherriot was safe, his features visibly brightened. Watching the hardened blue of his eyes soften, Dolly broke open the old shotgun, rendering it safe, and slung it over her shoulder.

Walking past him with an easy stride, she said flatly, “Go inside. Cherry’s waiting.”

Yuri didn’t need to be told twice. He followed her, his guard dropping completely. Watching her loose, confident stride, he guessed she had lived this dangerous sort of life for a very long time. Her weapon was an outdated break-action, but tremendously destructive at close range.

The moment the front door swung open, Cherriot’s voice rang out. “Dolly, did you see Yuri coming?”

Dolly leaned backward, half-concealed by the door frame, and caught Yuri’s eye. She threw a pointed look toward the interior, silently asking what he was waiting for.

In the indoor light, Yuri saw that her eyes were blue, strikingly similar to his own. Her silver-white hair had likely once been blond; her features suggested Eastern European ancestry rather than American.

“What are you doing?” Cherriot called out again from behind the door. “Wolfie?”

Hearing that bright, familiar voice, Yuri could no longer hold back. He gave Dolly a brief bow and hurried inside. Warm light enveloped him, banishing the suffocating darkness at once. He felt as though he could finally breathe.

Cherriot had been watching the entrance with one arm draped across the back of the sofa. The instant Yuri appeared, he vaulted over the backrest and ran.

“Yuri!”

He crossed the distance in seconds and threw his arms wide. Dolly raised an eyebrow from the doorway, but neither man had any attention left for her. Yuri wrapped his free arm around Cherriot’s back, a soft, involuntary smile breaking across his face.

“I’m sorry. You waited a long time.”

Cherriot nodded, tightening his embrace. The sudden pressure forced Yuri’s wound open, and he felt blood surge beneath the tape. He didn’t groan. He simply allowed himself to be held.

“I thought I was going insane. I thought something had happened. You didn’t answer your phone, and all because of me—”

“Cherry,” Dolly interrupted.

Cherriot raised his head.

“Your bodyguard appears to be injured. Why don’t you bandage him before anything else?”

“What?”

Cherriot released him instantly, stepping back to grip Yuri’s shoulders. Only then did he realize Yuri wore nothing beneath his coat. His face went pale. With frightening intensity, Cherriot scanned him, his gaze flicking briefly to Yuri’s throat before locking onto the blood seeping through the tape at his side.

“Fuck.”

Cherriot seized Yuri’s hand. Not his wrist—his hand.

Yuri loved the distinction, letting himself be pulled wherever Cherriot wished. Dolly observed them in silence before locking the front door. The unsecured lock had been nagging at Yuri’s instincts; he felt a quiet wave of relief that someone else was there to mind the perimeter.

Cherriot fell entirely silent. With a grave expression, as though he were the one bleeding, he guided Yuri onto the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen. He retrieved an old, faded red first-aid kit from a drawer beside the sink.

Kneeling before the sofa, Cherriot carefully peeled the coat away. Yuri rarely allowed his wounds to be examined under such bright light. The exposure felt awkward, made worse by Dolly’s gaze boring into his back. Cherriot might not care, but to anyone else, Yuri’s mangled torso was grotesque.

As the coat came off, Dolly let out a low hum. Yuri had stopped caring about the opinions of strangers long ago, but Dolly was family to Cherriot. He didn’t want someone precious to Cherriot to view him as a monster. It was a greedy desire, but a real one.

“Does it hurt badly?” Cherriot asked, his voice strained.

Yuri flinched out of his thoughts, looking up. Cherriot’s green eyes glistened with unshed moisture. His auburn brows were knitted in pain, looking more tormented than the wounded man himself.

Glaring at the injury, Cherriot picked up the scissors and began cutting the tape away. His hands were so incredibly gentle that Yuri caught his breath. The tenderness with which Cherriot handled a weapon like him was unbearably lovely.

Yet, it cut Yuri deeply to know he had put that look on Cherriot’s face. He had gone out wanting to bring back a smile, only to return and reduce him to tears.

What do I do? I wanted you to smile. I never meant to make you look like this.

His thoughts tangled. Frowning at his own failure, Yuri searched for anything to salvage the mood. Then he remembered the beer.

“I’m fine. More importantly, they didn’t have the beer you asked for. I had to get Coors Light instead—”

“That isn’t important right now, Yuri.”

Yuri’s words died in his throat. He had lifted the plastic rings of the six-pack, still gripped tightly in his hand, to prove he had succeeded in his errand. But Cherriot’s beautiful green eyes finally overflowed. Clear tears traveled down his pale cheeks, gathering at his jaw. He didn’t make a sound; he just wept.

“Cherriot.”

Yuri was entirely out of his depth. He had never cried; the world had never given him the luxury of time to do so. He might have shed tears of blood in his life, but never transparent ones like these.

“…Cherry.”

Faced with a puzzle more complex than any tactical operation, Yuri’s limited emotional vocabulary yielded the only answer it could.

“Don’t cry, Cherry.”

For the first time, he used the intimate nickname, whispering it softly. Instead of soothing him, the word made Cherriot’s face crumple further, his lips pressing together in heartbreak. Seeing him break down because of him hurt Yuri more than the bullet.

“The wound isn’t serious. The bullet only grazed me. Nothing vital was hit, and it doesn’t hurt. The men threatening you are gone for now, too, so you can relax.”

The more Yuri tried to rationalize, the harder the tears fell. Cherriot’s shoulders began to tremble, his breaths fracturing into quiet sobs. Swallowing his own distress, Yuri set the beer aside and firmly gripped Cherriot’s shoulders.

“…May I hold you for a moment?” he asked softly, terrified that embracing him without permission would only stain Cherriot with his blood.