ANDREI
Hospitals have a way of stripping men down to the most vulnerable, most terrified versions of themselves. They are a great equalizer. Everyone bleeds the same. Everyone can lose someone they can’t replace.
I stand in the hallway outside her room and keep my face neutral, wanting to avoid anyone catching me in a moment of weakness. Even now, I must keep it together. My men are stationed farther down the corridor, out of the way but close enough that no one could get within ten feet of me. My safety is, as always, handled.
The threat inside the building is low. The threat outside it is another matter, but the perimeter is covered. Petya has two teams on rotating shifts circling the building until we’re cleared to leave. I can have a car at the entrance in under thirty seconds if anything happens.
Unfortunately, none of that changes what happened. Alina could have been taken today. Some asshole tried to grab her, and that’s why she’s here.
She shouldn’t have been on that street. She shouldn’t have been exposed, even for an hour, even with security. I knew that when I let her go. I knew the risk. I told myself that everything would be fine.
This is just as much my fault as it is her attacker’s.
Now he’s nowhere to be found, of course. The attacker’s colleagues scooped up his dying body and drove away before my men could stop them. I’m furious that these bastards have slipped out of my grasp again. At least her guards got the plate number. It may lead to nothing, but it’s a starting place.
A doctor has already come out to speak to me. He clearly chose his words carefully, respectful in a way that indicated he knew exactly who I am. He told me Alina wasn’t badly injured and probably fainted from fear more than anything. He told me there was no sign of head trauma. He told me her pulse stabilized quickly. He told me she’d been very lucky.
Lucky. I didn’t correct him, but none of this felt very lucky to me. The only ones lucky in this situation are the attackers who drove away. They took fire from my men, but it could have been much worse for them if they stuck around.
My hands are clasped behind my back and I can feel the tightness in my knuckles. I can feel the pressure in my chest. It won’t ease up even though the crisis is technically over. I haven’t gone into the room yet. I don’t know if I’m waiting for her to wake up, or if I’m waiting to calm down enough to face her without screaming. I know none of this is her fault. She doesn’t deserve my misplaced wrath.
The door opens and a nurse steps out with a clipboard pressed against her chest. She’s young, I realize. I wish someone olderwere taking care of Alina. Someone more experienced. I don’t want to hold her age against her, but Alina should be receiving the best care money can buy.
“Mr. Markov?” she asks quietly.
I nod once.
“She’s waking up,” she says. “You can go in.”
I start to move, then she shifts her weight like she’s remembered something. Her eyes flick down the page, then back up to me.
“One thing before you do,” she adds, tone gentle in a way I don’t like. “We’ll need to confirm follow-up care. As her fiancé, do you know who her OB-GYN is?”
Her words stop me in my tracks. Her OB-GYN? I don’t know much about women’s health, but I know that’s a doctor who handles female issues, including pregnancies.
The nurse clears her throat awkwardly, like she thinks maybe I didn’t hear her. I turn on her, trying to keep my temper in check.
“What did you say?” I ask.
Her expression shifts slightly. She’s confused now, and perhaps a little alarmed. She flips the clipboard a fraction, checking her notes.
“Her OB-GYN,” she repeats. “We just need the doctor’s name for her records.”
She’s pregnant.
My throat closes hard enough that it takes effort to breathe normally. I don’t react the way I want to. I don’t let anything show. I have years of practice at that. Still, heat flares low in mygut, immediate and possessive, so fast it makes me angry. My fingers flex once behind my back, slow and controlled, because I don’t trust them to stay still.
“We aren’t seeing any complications with the baby. We’re just following standard protocols.”
I force my jaw to loosen before it locks tight. I swallow once. My throat feels dry.
“I don’t know,” I say, and my voice is deadly calm. “She doesn’t share that kind of information with me.”
The nurse blinks at that. Her face changes in the smallest way, like she’s suddenly aware that she just stepped into something private and dangerous. She recovers quickly, though, taking a step back from me.
“Okay,” she says softly. “We can ask her when she’s more alert.”
“Do that,” I answer.
