Page 96 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

I stand in the doorway, watching. The wound is angry and red, a deep graze along the outside of his upper arm. Blood has dried in dark streaks down to his elbow, staining his shirt sleeve.

"Clean entry and exit," the doctor says, his voice clinical. "No fragments. You're lucky."

"Lucky," Emil repeats, his tone flat.

The doctor cleans the wound quickly and efficiently, and I see Emil's jaw tighten, the only sign that it hurts. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't flinch, just sits there like a statue while the doctor works.

"It'll need stitches," the doctor says. "And antibiotics to prevent infection."

"Fine."

I watch as the needle pierces his skin, pulling the edges of the wound together. Each stitch is precise, methodical. Emil's eyes never leave the wall across from him, his expression blank.

When it's done, the doctor wraps the arm in clean white bandages and gives Emil a bottle of pills. "Take these antibiotics twice a day. Keep the wound clean and dry. Come back in a week so I can check it."

Emil nods, sliding off the table. He's still wearing his blood-stained shirt, the fabric torn and ruined. He looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual.

"You should rest," I say.

"I'm fine."

"Emil—"

"I said I'm fine." His voice is harder now, brooking no argument.

I bite back my response and follow him out of the medical wing. We walk through the quiet halls of the estate, our footsteps echoing on the marble floors. When we reach the corridor where our rooms are, he stops.

"Get some sleep," he says without looking at me. "We'll talk in the morning."

Then he's gone, disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, before heading to my own room. The space feels too large and empty. I change into pajamas and climb into bed, but sleep doesn't come.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Emil throwing himself over me. The blood spreading across his shirt.

He could have died.

The thought hits me like a freight train, stealing my breath. He could have died protecting me. He did get shot! What if that bullet had lodged into his chest instead of grazing his arm?

I roll onto my side, pulling the blankets up to my chin. My heart is racing, my mind spinning with images I can't shake.

When did this happen? When did I start caring about him so much that the thought of losing him terrifies me?

I'm supposed to hate him. He's a criminal, a killer, a man who operates outside the law and doesn't apologize for it. He forced me into this engagement, into this life, and I should resent him for it.

But I don't.

Somewhere along the way, between the arguments and the passion and the quiet moments we've shared, he's gotten under my skin. I care about him. More than I should. More than is safe.

And seeing him bleeding tonight, knowing he'd been shot because he was protecting me, had nearly undone me. Had scared the hell out of me in a way nothing else in my life has. Not even when my parents died and Kevin took over the parenting roles.

I press my face into the pillow, trying to calm my racing thoughts. But it's useless. Sleep won't come, and the fear won't fade.

Hours pass. I watch the shadows on the ceiling shift as the moon moves across the sky. Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I drift into a restless sleep filled with gunshots and blood.

When I wake, sunlight is streaming through the windows. I feel groggy, disoriented, like I haven't slept at all. I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.

In the mirror, I look pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I look like I feel. Wrung out and worried.