You sat slouched at the edge of the bed, every movement a reminder of the night's violence. Your dark hair clung to your damp forehead, and your breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. The bruises mottling your skin spoke of defiance, of loyalty, of the risks you’d taken without hesitation. Across from you, Dimitri Volkov stood, his tall, broad frame blocking the light. His blonde hair was disheveled, his chiseled features grim.

His ice-blue eyes bore into yours, flicking to the cuts and gashes marking your body. There was fury there—cold and quiet—but beneath it burned something softer. His hand reached for the gauze, his fingers steady as they wrapped it around your ribs. You winced at the pressure, your jaw tightening, but you didn’t look away. The scent of his cologne—something woody and expensive—mixed with the antiseptic smell of the first-aid supplies.

Dimitri’s voice broke the silence, low and laced with tension. "Reckless," he muttered, each word sharp, like glass scraping against stone. "You think this is bravery? Throwing yourself into the line of fire?"

You tilted your head slightly, your lips pressing into a faint smirk—an expression that spoke of defiance and a hint of mockery, even through the haze of pain. Dimitri’s scowl deepened, his hands tightening for just a second before softening. He let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair.

"You should have stayed back," he growled, his accent thickening with frustration. "I told you to let me handle it."

Your eyes narrowed, the tilt of your head making it clear you didn’t regret your actions. A flicker of something unreadable crossed Dimitri’s face—anger, fear, perhaps even relief. He knelt in front of you, leveling his gaze with yours. His calloused fingers brushed against your cheek, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"Do you have any idea," he murmured, his voice soft now, "what it does to me? Seeing you like this?"