The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 433

Chapter 433
Mikhail's POV

"He still cares about you."

The words leave my mouth, blunt and simple. If I’d said this when I first got back, I’d have thought he was a useless fool, a man who couldn’t even protect what was his. But after seeing him, after watching the desperation in his sprint tonight… as a man, I can recognize the raw, ugly determination to fix something he knows is broken. The need to make amends, however clumsily.

Gemma glances at me, and for a second I think I see a flicker of something—pain, maybe. Then her fingers dig into my bandaged shoulder, right over the wound.

"Ouch!" The yelp is involuntary, sharp.

"Do I need his care now?" she snaps, her eyes flashing. "It's you who's injured. Why can't you just keep your mouth shut!"

She is still as ruthless as ever, I think, a grim amusement cutting through the pain. If I'd known, I might have let that spotlight hit her.

I’ve taken my shirt off for the nurse, and now I’m just sitting here in my jeans, staring at the old, puckered scar on my abdomen. It’s a permanent souvenir, a ugly knot of tissue just below my ribs.

"Does it hurt?" Her voice is quieter now, the anger gone as quickly as it came.

I’m not looking at her. The question takes a second to register. I follow her gaze down to the scar. "It hurt at the time, of course," I say, my voice flat. "But now I don’t feel anything."

It’s the truth about that specific mark. The bullet still in me, though… that’s a different story. That one likes to remind me it’s there, with a pain so deep and grinding it feels like it’s trying to chew its way out.

I see her hand move from the corner of my eye. A tentative reach toward the scar. Then she hesitates, thinks better of it, starts to pull back.

Fast—faster than I think—my hand snaps out and catches her wrist. Her skin is cool. I guide her hand, pressing her palm flat against the old wound. The touch sends a jolt straight through me.

"If you want to touch it, go ahead," I say, the words coming out rougher than I intend. I cover the weird tension with bravado. "I have a good body. It's normal for you to be tempted. Since we're friends, I'll let you touch it once."

It’s stupid teasing, the kind of thing I’d say to one of the guys. But then I look up and see her eyes. They’re shimmering, welling up with tears she’s trying desperately to hold back.

A cold panic, sharper than any battlefield alarm, seizes me. "Don't cry!" I blurt, my voice too loud for the small room. "This scar is so old, it really doesn't hurt anymore!"

I’m useless at this. My life has been barracks and gun oil and brief, transactional encounters. Maggie was… something else, but that’s a ghost. Comforting a crying woman? I have no manual for this.

She doesn’t pull her hand away, though. Despite my idiotic words, her fingers stay. Then, slowly, gently, her fingertips begin to trace the raised, uneven line of the scar. The touch is feather-light, a soft exploration. It’s not clinical. It’s… reverent.

My whole body goes rigid. A sensation I’ve never felt before—a hot, tight coil of awareness—spreads from that point of contact through my entire abdomen, my chest, my limbs. I freeze, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, not daring to look at her face.

She withdraws her hand. The cool air rushes back to my skin. "I'll go get a nurse to re-bandage you," she says, her voice thick. She can’t stand looking at her own shoddy work anymore.

She just pouts slightly, a fleeting, almost childish expression. Who knew? her face seems to say.

The next move is pure instinct, no thought behind it. I wrap my arm around the back of her neck, my hand cupping her head. It’s not a rough move, but it’s firm. I pull her gently forward until her forehead rests against my good shoulder. She’s stiff as a board.

"I know you were scared just now," I murmur into her hair. The scent of her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral, fills my senses. "If you want to cry, go ahead. No one's here to see it but me. And I promise I won't tell anyone."

For a few seconds, nothing. Then, I feel it. A tremor runs through her. A hot, damp patch grows on the shoulder of my shirt. No sound, just the silent, shuddering release of tears she’s been holding back for who knows how long.

I don’t know why she’s crying. Maybe it’s the shock of nearly being crushed. Maybe it’s the weight of the baby, of Cassian, of Smith, of a future she’s marching toward with grim determination. It doesn’t matter. I just hold her, one hand patting her back in what I hope is a comforting rhythm. It feels awkward, but I keep doing it.

"Since you're coming with me to Florisdale," I say softly, the words meant just for her, "don't keep everything bottled up around me. It's exhausting to watch. And I won't judge you."

She sniffs, but says nothing. She just lets the tears flow until they run their course.

By the time the nurse finally returns, looking harassed, Gemma has pulled away. She’s composed, her face wiped clean, only a slight redness around her eyes giving her away. She doesn’t look at me.

We walk out of the treatment room together, a silent, weirdly intimate understanding hanging between us. 

And there, in the harsh light of the waiting area, are Cassian and Zina.