I groaned into the pillow, my muffled cries filling the empty dormitory. The gunfire, screams, and Artur’s cold orders replayed in my mind. Thinking about him made me bolt upright. Salva gave me the pills for a reason, yet Artur seemed fine. But why had Dorothy, and the others rushed to his wing earlier?
Digging the remaining pills out of my bra, I stared at them, my anxiety mounting. I needed to get rid of them. As the thought settled in, the door burst open. Mara and Clara walked in, both looking pale and unsettled.
“I don’t get it,” Mara muttered, pacing. “How could it be only the boss’s food? The chef and the kitchen staff prepare everything together.”
Clara nodded, frowning. “Exactly. If someone wanted to poison him, they’d have to make sure no one else touched his food. That’s … tricky.”
“Poor dog,” Mara said, shaking her head. She turned toward her bed but then stopped. Her gaze landed on me, and her eyes narrowed. Crossing her arms over her chest, she let out a sharp scoff. “I find it hard to believe what Renat said.”
“Don’t,” Clara warned.
“No, Clara,” Mara shot back, stepping toward me. “This girl should be on the list of people to investigate.”
“They checked the damn cameras,” Clara snapped, pointing at me. “Alessia is innocent. You watched the clip yourself.”
My stomach lurched. Cameras?
I swallowed hard. “What happened?” I asked.
Mara gave a humorless laugh. “To me, you’re guilty until we find the suspect. Things have been messy from the moment you showed your face in this mansion.” She walked to her bed and collapsed onto it.
Clara met my gaze. “The food you served the boss was poisoned. He realized it when the dog ate it and … stopped breathing. It’s in a critical condition.”
The world tilted. Everything else faded to static. “The dog?”
Without another word, I bolted from the dorm. My mind raced as I headed for the east wing, ignoring the workers cleaning up the attack’s aftermath.
The mansion was quieter now. When I reached Artur’s quarters, it was empty. Panic surged through me as I checked every room, even the gym in the basement. The dog was nowhere to be found. As I was about to give up, I heard the front door creak open. I hid behind the nearest door, peering out asArtur stepped inside.
His movements were slow. He gripped the railing as he climbed the stairs, one hand clutching his chest. Every step seemed like a struggle. He undid the buttons of his shirt and disappeared into his room. I crept up, stopping outside his door, which he’d left ajar.
From inside, I heard a crash, followed by silence. Peeking through the opening, I froze at the shattered remains of a lampshade on the floor. Artur sat on the floor, leaning against the edge of his bed. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth as he inhaled faster, the small tank at his side hissing softly. His eyes remained squeezed shut, and his shirt hung open, exposing the gunshot wound on his shoulder.
For a moment, I hesitated. I should’ve left him alone, let him handle whatever was going on. But I stepped inside. I approached him slowly. His breathing was uneven, his chest heaving. His hand trembled as it slipped from the mask.
I knelt between his legs and pressed the mask back against his nose. His eyes stayed closed, and his body slumped against the bed. He looked so different, vulnerable. The cold man was gone, leaving someone who seemed to plead for help silently.
This was my second encounter with him in this state. I stayed there, holding the mask to his face as I matched my breaths to his. My heart raced, but I forced myself to focus. His breathing eventually slowed, and the tension in his body eased. When he finally opened his eyes, they locked onto mine.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Silence stretched between us, the kind that made your pulse slow and your thoughts drift. His gray eyes held mine with a quiet intensity. The first time I saw them, I remembered how they stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t know better back then, and I let myself fall. Under the tension, he stared at me like he was seeing something holy. Like, he didn’t quite believe I was real. For the first time, his gazewasn’t filled with anger or cold. It was soft, almost grateful.
The warmth of his hand over mine sent shivers down my spine. He yanked off the mask and spoke, “Did I ask for your help?”
His voice was cold, contrasting with the vulnerability I’d just witnessed. “I was just doing my job,” I whispered.
He raised a brow, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a scowl. “Stick to what you’re expected to do,” he said. I clenched my jaw, biting back a retort. Instead, I started to pick the shattered pieces of the lampshade. But before I could finish, he stopped me, “Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”
I remained on my knees, watching as he examined his wound. It wasn’t my place to ask, but seeing him lose himself for the second time raised a red flag.
“Should I call the doctor for you?”
He shot me a look. “Do I look sick to you?”
“A minute ago, you did.”
“Can you get your ass out of my sight?”
Great. What was the point? “I’m only trying to help.” I stood up. “Is there anything else you need?”