Blood runs warm down my side, soaking into my shirt. She stands over me, still holding the knife, eyes burning with rage.

I grin.

Of course, it was her.

Only she could stab me and make it feel like some sort of foreplay.

“Vaughn,” she hisses, voice trembling with fury. “Why didn’t you move?”

I lean back against the wall, leaving a streak of red as I slide down, and chuckle low in my throat. “Because, krasivaya, you finally meant it.”

Her eyes narrow, a mixture of anger and heartbreak in them. “You’re insane.”

“Undeniably,” I reply, my grin widening despite the pain. “But I’d rather be stabbed by you than kissed by anyone else.”

It all started with a fight—about loyalty, about lies I let her believe to keep her safe. I fed her half-truths, thinking I was protecting her. She found out. She always does. And when she did, the fury in her eyes could’ve burned the whole world down.

She screamed. I listened. She warned me. And I walked closer.

And then she stabbed me.

Now she’s dropping the knife, her hands pressing against the wound. “You’re losing too much blood,” she says. “You need to—”

“I need you,” I interrupt, my hand covering hers to still her movement. “That’s all I’ve ever fucking needed.”

Her jaw tightens, her eyes flashing with something I can’t quite name. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did,” I whisper, my grin still there, even through the blood. “And I let you. Because if anyone’s going to ruin me, it’s going to be my wife.”

She glares at me, torn between anger and something else.

The pain is almost blinding, but I still hold her gaze. “You gonna finish the job, moya printsessa?”

Because, if she really wanted to, I’d let her. In fact, I’d encourage it. Anything for my beautiful wife.