“No hospitals,” she groans softly.
“This isn’t a hospital.”
I push through the door to exam room two and set her down on the table as carefully as I can manage. She winces anyway, hands immediately going to her ribs.
“Don’t,” I say, catching her wrists. “Let Moronov look first.”
She glares at me. “I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you’re not.”
Moronov enters, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She moves to the sink, washing her hands with methodical precision.
“Name?” she asks without turning around.
“Ayla,” I answer when she doesn’t.
“Can she speak for herself?”
Ayla’s eyes flash. “Yes.”
Yeva dries her hands, turns to face us both. Her gaze settles on Ayla with the kind of assessment that misses nothing.
“I’m going to need you to remove the hoodie,” she says gently.
Ayla doesn’t move.
“Ayla—” I start.
“No I’m not removing clothes with you in here and I don’t need anything, but sleep I told you,” she snaps.
Yeva wraps a hand around my arm and switches to Russian.
“Maksim, where did you find her? If she’s been assaulted she may not want—”
“She hasn’t,” I fire back quickly and freeze.
The word lands wrong.
Ayla’s glare cuts to me, sharp enough to draw blood. And suddenly I don’t know. The possibility twists low and ugly in my gut.
I switch back to English.
“She needs a full workup,” I demand. Flat. Final.
Ayla’s head snaps toward Moronov “I don’t. I just need—”
“Full,” I repeat, sharper. “Top to bottom.”
Moronov’s brows rise slightly. “Maksim, maybe—”
Ayla opens her mouth.
“She’s obviously been battered,” I cut in.
“I have not, I fell. Down some stairs,” she snaps, but her eyes shift.
I turn to her slowly. “Did you? Because I’ve seen people fall. This isn’t from a fall.”
