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There was a scream, and Nikolai had no time to think before his body reacted, shoving Zoya to the ground and covering her. He felt a searing pain in his side as they fell, both of them landing hard.
Zoya pushed herself up into a sitting position, classic annoyance on her face. “What was that?”
“Get down!” Nikolai managed, gasping in pain.
Zoya looked down at him, her brow slightly furrowed. “Are you ok?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” He said, clenching his teeth.
She looked mildly concerned, but all she asked was, “shooters?”
He nodded once. She lifted her arms, throw three men back against the stone wall with a nasty crack. "There."
“I’m fine.” He repeated.
“Stop tell me that you’re f—you’re bleeding.” She noticed, rolling over to crouch next to him.
He gave her a charming smile, but the grin was forced. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Shit.” She breathed, revealing the bloodied mess that was his left side. “You fucking took a bullet for me, Nikolai.” She said, peeling his coat and shirt away to get a better look. The white fabric was stained with crimson blood.
“So eager to get my clothes off, Nazyalensky.” His vision was starting to blur as black spots chased themselves across his eyelids.
“Glad to see your tongue isn’t hurt.” She said, the banter only existing to keep up a façade of normalcy for the both of them.
He laughed and then immediately winced, the chuckle turning into a grunt of pain.
“Dammit Nikolai. Why did you think this was a good idea?”
“I would do it again, you know.” He said faintly. He wanted her to know—just in case he didn’t make it.
“I’m expandable, Lantsov! You’re not; you’re the king!” She said. “Put pressure on the wound.”
“I am. And you’re not... not expandable.” He ground out with a weary nod. It hurt like hell, but he wasn’t going to let her know that.
“You’re not putting enough on.” That was because he was too weak to do so, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell her that. “Does it hurt?”
“I just got shot! Of course it hurts!” He hissed incredulously. “Just…” His voice trailed off in defeat, a sound he rarely made.
His side felt like it was on fire. The pain came in waves—sometimes it was almost bearable, but sometimes it was excruciating. This was one of those times, and his hands weakened on the wound as he fought to keep silent, to conceal his true feelings.
He must have shown some outward sign of it, because Zoya’s sapphire-blue eyes came into view again. Big and blue as the ocean, they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She really was unfairly pretty. “Nikolai.”
“I love it when you say my name. An—and it’s not fair that your eyes are so pretty.” He mumbled, half delirious.
“Nikolai, I’m need to put pressure on the wound now.” She said, trying and failing to hide her terror as she talked slowly, almost as if he was a small child. “Is that ok?”
He only nodded, trying not to thrash away as sweat beaded his face. She had balled up his shirt and pressed it to the wound, making his breath come in panicked gasps. Oh Saints, it hurt. He couldn’t think straight; couldn’t think at all—
“We need to get you a healer.” She decided, leaning above him. Black stars were beginning to dull his vision, dancing across the worried face in front of him. “Lantsov, talk to me!”
Why should he? The darkness was so inviting, and it would be so easy to close his eyes and slip away. All the pain would disappear, the things that made him want to scream—it took him a moment to realize that the woman above him was still talking.
“Focus on my voice, Nikolai. Stay with me. That’s good. Stay with me.”
It sounded like it was coming from far away, but he tried. He voice. So sharp, but at the same time alluring. She was like a siren—pulling him in, enchanting him and making him forget that he couldn’t have her; just for a moment.
“I’m going to pick you up, Nikolai. It’s going to hurt.”
It was agony as they moved, and there was so much blood—it was all over her kefta. He worried that he was ruining it, but she didn’t seem to mind. He twirled the scarlet paint in circles with his finger. Was there something he should be worrying about? In this half-conscious state, Nikolai couldn’t remember.
There it was. The pain tearing through him again, turning his vision white as they stumbled along, his lanky frame too big for her arms. “Hurts.” He whimpered pitifully. He shouldn’t be saying this; couldn’t show the world how weak he was; couldn’t become Nikolai Nothing again—had to—
“Shh.” She said, comforting him frantically.
“Help.”
“You’re going to be ok.” She said. Her silky voice was the last thing the king heard before descending into the cool sleep of unconsciousness.