The leather beneath my fingers was soft—cream-colored, impossibly clean.
For one terrifying second, I thought I was hallucinating.
Then memory snapped into place.
Ruslan’s estate.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
No.
No, no—
I pushed myself up too quickly. Pain ripped through my abdomen and hips, stealing my breath. My vision swam again but I forced it to focus.
A broken gasp clawed its way out of my throat—raw, uneven, barely more than a damaged whisper.
The room spun for a heartbeat before steadying.
A man stood several feet away, hands visible, posture deliberately nonthreatening.
Mid-fifties. Silver threaded neatly through dark hair at his temples. A tailored blue shirt beneath a white medical coat. Slacks pressed. Shoes polished.
A stethoscope rested around his neck like a quiet declaration of purpose.
He did not look like one of Ruslan’s men pretending to be a doctor.
He looked like someone who had operated in private clinics at three in the morning. Someone who had stitched bullet wounds without asking questions. Someone accustomed to silence and blood.
“My name is Dr. Markov,” he said gently.
His voice was calm and professional.
Behind the couch, my six brothers stood like sentinels.
They had changed clothes.
Gone were the blood-soaked tactical uniforms.
Now they wore dark suits—sharp, fitted, expensive.
Their hair was damp from rushed showers, but nothing could wash the exhaustion from their eyes.
Dario stood closest to me. Ethan slightly forward, angled protectively.
They looked polished.
But they were still braced for war.
I opened my mouth instinctively.
Tried.
Forced my throat to cooperate.
Nothing came but a ragged rasp that scraped like broken glass. Pain flared along the old damage, and I swallowed bile.
I signed instead.
