I squint at the Cyrillic letters. “What does that—?”
“Hospital,” Konstantin says simply.
I’ve seen plenty of intimidating places in my life. The principal’s office in eighth grade when I accidentally set off the fire alarm. My first job interview where I spilled coffee on the hiring manager. The DMV on a Monday morning.
But this? This hospital room masquerading as a five-star hotel suite? This wins the prize for Most Likely to Make My Knees Involuntarily Wobble.
“Stop fidgeting,” Konstantin murmurs, his hand pressing lightly against my back as we stand outside his father’s door. His touch shouldn’t be comforting. It really shouldn’t. And yet.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I whisper back while absolutely fidgeting. “I’m just… recalibrating my molecular structure to better withstand whatever horror show awaits us behind door number one.”
His eyes flick to mine, that mercurial gray catching the light. For a second—just a millisecond, really—I swear I see his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of amusement haunting his face before vanishing without a trace.
“He’s not a monster,” Konstantin says, his voice low. “He’s just a man.”
I swallow hard as he pushes open the door. The room beyond is a collision of luxury and medical necessity—like someone decided to build a presidential suite around a hospital bed.
This time, his mouth definitely twitches.
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I, though? Because your mother looked at me like I was something she found stuck to her designer heel, and she’s supposedly the nice parent.”
Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “My mother is… complicated.”
“Complicated like a Rubik’s cube, or complicated like a bomb that might detonate if I breathe wrong?”
“The second one,” he admits, and I appreciate the honesty, even as it sends my anxiety into orbit.
A hawk-faced man in an expensive suit approaches, clutching a leather portfolio like it contains nuclear launch codes. His eyes, cold and calculating, slide over me with the enthusiasm of someone inspecting gas station sushi.
“Mr. Belov,” he says, nodding to Konstantin. “I see you’ve brought… her.”
Wow.
The way he says “her” makes it sound like Konstantin dragged in a half-dead raccoon he found on the highway.
“Boris,” Konstantin replies, voice glacial. “This is my wife, Isabella Marquez-Belov.”
The Marquez-Belov addition surprises me enough that I almost miss the insult in Boris’s thin-lipped smile.
“Of course,” Boris murmurs.
Konstantin’s hand presses harder against my back. Warning or reassurance, I can’t tell.
“Is the doctor with him?” Konstantin asks.
“Dr. Gurinov just finished his examination,” Boris confirms. “ThePakhanis… alert today.”
The pause before “alert” carries enough weight to sink a battleship.
Boris pushes open the double doors without another word, and we follow him into what feels suspiciously like the jaws of a very well-appointed trap.
The room beyond is massive—more luxury penthouse than hospital room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the estate gardens, while medical equipment lurks discreetly in corners, trying to blend in with the opulent furniture like embarrassed party guests.
And there, propped up against pillows in a vast, ornate bed, sits the man himself. ThePakhan.
My first thought is that he looks nothing like a man who just woke up from a six-month coma. My second thought is that helooks exactly like what would happen if you carved a man from granite and then taught him how to hate.
