51
Wren
Istride through the pristine halls of Ivankov's "clinic," my boots echoing off the polished marble. This place is more five-star hotel than hospital, all gleaming surfaces and designer furniture. It's making my skin crawl.
Two weeks.Two fucking weeks I've been in and out of this gilded cage, watching D drift in and out of consciousness. All because Erik insisted we use their personal medical team. I get it, discretion and all that shit, but still.
I round the corner and there he is. Erik, lounging against the wall like he owns the place, that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.
"Well, if it isn't our favorite patient," he drawls, pushing off the wall.
I roll my eyes. "Fuck off, Erik. I'm not here for your jokes."
He falls into step beside me, unfazed. "Come on, Wren. You've got to admit, the view's not bad."
As if on cue, a nurse walks by, all long legs and perfect curves. I resist the urge to trip her.
"Yeah, real classy," I mutter. "Where's D?"
Erik's grin widens. "Oh, you're gonna love this."
We reach D's room, and I freeze in the doorway. There, leaning over D's bed, is a woman who looks like she stepped off a fucking runway. Long, platinum blonde hair, legs for days, and a white coat that's definitely not standard issue.
"Who the fuck is that?" I hiss.
Erik chuckles. "That, my dear Wren, is Dr. Anastasia Volkov. Top of her class at Moscow State Medical University, and apparently, a miracle worker with gunshot wounds."
Dr. Volkov turns, and I swear her eyes fucking twinkle. "Ah, you must be Wren," she says, her accent thick and rich. "I've heard so much about you."
I bet you have, I think, gritting my teeth.
D stirs on the bed, his eyes fluttering open. "Wren?" he mumbles, voice rough from disuse.
I push past the doctor, ignoring her raised eyebrow. "Hey, big guy. How you feeling?"
He grunts, trying to sit up. Dr. Volkov tsks, pressing him back down with a manicured hand. "Now, now, Mr. Orlov. We can't have you undoing all my hard work."
I watch her hands linger on his chest, my jaw clenching so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
"I need to change your bandages," she announces, reaching for the hem of D's shirt.
"I can do that," I snap, the words out before I can stop them.
Dr. Volkov's laugh is like tinkling crystal. "Oh, darling. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this requires a... professional touch."
She starts peeling back D's shirt, revealing the patchwork of bandages and bruises underneath. I feel my face heating up, a mix of anger and something else I don't want to name.
Erik leans in, his breath hot on my ear. "Green's not your color, Wren."
I elbow him hard in the ribs, satisfaction blooming as he wheezes. "Shut it, asshole."
Dr. Volkov continues her examination, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. But there's something in the way she touches D, a lingering here, a caress there, that sets my teeth on edge.
"How's the pain, Mr. Orlov?" she asks, her voice pitched low and intimate.
D's eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the cocktail of drugs they've got him on, I can't tell. "S'fine," he slurs.
"Excellent," she purrs. "I think we can start reducing your medication soon. But for now, let's get you comfortable."
