Chapter 19 My bedroom door bangs open, startling me. I whirl around to find Sergei standing in the doorway, chest heaving, blood smeared across his hands. Sasha slumps against him, barely conscious, his face a mess of bruises and dried blood. His shirt hangs in tatters, and he clamps an arm around his ribs like every breath knifes through him. "What the hell?" I scream, trying to process the scene in front of me. "Oh, my God. What happened?" "Help me get him to the bed," Sergei demands, his tone clipped. I don't hesitate. I move on autopilot, relying on the precise training drilled into me in the ER. I rush forward, take Sasha's other arm, and guide him to the edge of the bed. He groans in pain as we gently set him down. As soon as he's seated, I dart to my closet and dig through the bottom drawer where I remember stashing an emergency medical kit. I yank the kit from the drawer and rush back to Sasha, snapping on gloves and laying out gauze and antiseptic to tackle the visible wounds first. "Sasha," I say, keeping my voice calm as I examine his face. His left eye is swollen shut, a deep gash slices across his cheekbone, and his lip is split. "Can you hear me?" "Mmhm," he mutters faintly. "Can you tell me what hurts?" I ask, gentle but urgent. Every second counts. He needs a full workup in a hospital. He could be bleeding internally, but I clamp down on the panic and patch him up as best I can. "Everything," he groans, which doesn't help me at all. I glance up at Sergei. He stands ramrod straight, every muscle coiled, anger and concern twin shadows across his face. "What happened?" I demand. Any information would help, but he's infuriatingly tight-lipped, just like his brother. Sergei doesn't look away from Sasha. "I can't tell you that," he says, voice flat. "Can't or won't?" I demand. His eyes flick to mine, hard and unreadable. "Both." That answer sends a chill through me, but I bite my tongue. Now's not the time. I turn back to Sasha's wounds, cleaning them until I reach the edge of his shirt. "Help me get his shirt off," I say instead. Together, we ease the fabric up and over his head, revealing a map of bruises and cuts, several disturbingly deep. I suck in a breath and reach for the antiseptic. "This is going to sting," I warn. Sasha groans again but doesn't protest as I start cleaning the gashes. Sergei crouches beside me, wordlessly handing over supplies. I've treated patients in some bizarre situations, but never with him as my assistant, and he's surprisingly efficient. "What about internal damage?" he asks, his voice low. I press gently along Sasha's ribs. He winces sharply when I reach his right side, and I know it's bad. "I'd guess he has a few broken ribs. Without an X-ray I can't be certain, but these two worry me most," I say, motioning to the spots that made him wince. Sergei exhales through his nose; his jaw flexes. "Can he go to the hospital?" Sergei hesitates, then shakes his head. "No." "No?" I echo, incredulous. He meets my gaze, and this time, the steel in his eyes is unmistakable. "We'll keep him here. I'll have a doctor come in later if he needs it. He'll be fine." I want to press him, to demand answers. But I already know I won't get any. Not tonight, at the very least. So instead, I bandage Sasha's worst wounds and help him lie across the foot of the bed while Sergei props a pillow behind his head. I press a cool cloth to his forehead and pass Sergei a bottle of water. "He needs rest," I say softly. "At least a couple of days. I'm worried about those ribs, so he should stay as still as possible until the pain eases." Sasha gives me a weak smile. "Thanks, Nurse Nicole," he mutters through his split lip. "You're a lifesaver." "Let's just get you through the night," I tell him, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. Sergei straightens slowly, glancing down at his brother. "I'll take him back to his room in a minute." I nod, rising to my feet and tossing the soiled gauze into a small trash bag I keep under the sink. When I turn back, Sergei's gaze is on me, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For helping him." I fold my arms over my chest, trying to keep my voice level. "You're lucky I was here," I tell him honestly. "He's in bad shape." "I knew you'd know what to do." His words send a flutter through my chest, but I shove it aside. "Sergei," I say carefully, "what's going on?" He doesn't answer. Instead, he closes the distance between us in two long strides, reaching for my hand. His fingers are warm, a stark contrast to the cold anxiety curling in my stomach. "I can't tell you," he murmurs, "but I want to. You have no idea how much I want to." "Then why don't you?" He pauses, searching my face. But then Sasha groans again from the bed, and I know his needs are more important than mine right now. "You should get him to his room," I say softly. "He needs rest." Sergei nods slowly, but he doesn't let go of my hand. "Can I come back after I get him settled?" He gives me an earnest look. "Please." My throat tightens, and I manage a nod. "Okay." Sergei finally lets go of my hand and moves back to his brother, helping him gingerly up and out the door, with more affection than I thought him capable of. Once they're gone, I collapse onto the edge of the bed, my heart still racing. What the hell was that? I force myself to keep moving, starting with stripping the bloody sheets, disinfecting every surface, and anything else to steady my nerves. I have to do something with my hands to calm my racing thoughts. Sergei's silence infuriates me. He can't expect me to patch up that kind of damage without a single answer, yet maybe that's exactly what I agreed to. Maybe I signed up for much more than Liliya's care and never saw it coming. Once the room is clean, I hear a faint knock at the door. It swings open, much more gently this time, and I wave him in. Sergei stands near the door, one hand braced against the frame like he might bolt at any second. His other hand is curled into a fist at his side, tension rippling through his muscles. I summon my courage and address the elephant in the room. "I need to ask you something," I say, my voice much calmer than I actually feel. He turns slightly, enough that I can see the outline of his jaw, sharp and clenched, like he's anticipating something unpleasant. "Go ahead." I study him for a beat, searching for any crack in his composure. "Why didn't you take Sasha to the hospital?" His eyes flick to mine, and I see a wall go up. He doesn't want to lie to me, but he doesn't want to tell the truth either. "I couldn't risk it," he says finally. "Because...?" I prod. "That's not something I can tell you," he says, only inflaming my frustration. I cross my arms, heart thudding against my ribcage. "You brought your bloodied brother into my bedroom, Sergei. You asked me to help, and I did, but you can't expect me to just go on pretending that this is normal. I deserve to know the truth." A muscle twitches in his cheek. "I don't expect you to pretend this is normal." He sighs. "I just need you to accept that there are some answers I can't give you." I step closer. "You can trust me, Sergei," I say, soft but firm. "Let me in." It's hypocritical since I'm hiding a massive secret of my own, but maybe honesty has to start somewhere. Maybe it's time to lay all our cards on the table. Instead, his gaze sharpens, and I can feel him pulling away emotionally. He withdraws, just as he always does when I question his world. "I'm not sure you'd stay if you knew who I really am," he says at last. My stomach knots. Not from fear, but from the frustration of being shut out and wanting to reach him only to have the door slammed in my face. I keep my voice steady, even though my hands are starting to shake. "I can't fall for the version you're willing to show me-that illusion isn't real. I have to be able to see who you are on the inside. You have to be willing to show me all of you, or this will never work." He studies me in silence, muscles taut with some private war. Part of him wants to let me in, but the wall between us still towers. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he's seconds from grabbing me, or bolting. Then, finally, he steps forward. He lifts a hand and brushes a lock of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, like I'm fragile and he's terrified he'll be the one to break me. "You've already seen more than I wanted you to," he says, barely above a whisper. I search his eyes. "So why do you feel like you have to hide?" He exhales slowly. "You saw me with Sasha tonight," he says, "and you didn't flinch. You didn't panic. You didn't walk away. That should've scared you, Nicole." "It takes a lot to scare me," I say defiantly. "Maybe that's the problem." He says it like a curse, as though my reaction to this fucked-up situation is the problem. His thumb traces a line across my cheekbone, then down along my jaw. I lean in to his touch before I even realize I'm doing it. My body responds to him before my brain can tell it not to. "You don't know what you're asking for," he says softly. "You don't know what it means to really know me." "I guess we'll never know until you show me." His eyes drop to my lips. There's so much unsaid between us, crackling in the space we haven't quite closed. And for a second, I think he might lean in. I think he might give in to whatever this is simmering between us. But instead, he steps back, his hand falling to his side. Just like that, the warmth between us disappears. "You've had enough for one night," he says, and the sudden change in tone sends a chill down my spine. "Try to get some rest." I don't stop him this time. I don't chase him or press for more. I just stand there, watching as he walks to the door, opens it, and pauses. He turns his head slightly. "Goodnight, Nicole." He slips into the hallway, closing the door with quiet finality. I sink onto the edge of the bed, heart pounding in my ears. Why does he have to make everything so complicated? We could walk away, pretend none of this exists. Yet every time he pushes me away, he pulls me back even harder, confusing me in ways I'm not ready to name. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...