Page 85 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"WHERE IS HE?!"

The shriek tears from my throat, my body scrambling to sit up on the edge of the mattress, my IV lines taut, the tape on my hand pulling against the needle. The nurse lunges forward to hold my shoulders, her face tight with worry. "You need to stay in the bed, Mrs. Kovalevskiia! Your blood pressure⁠—"

"I don't care about my blood pressure!" I shove her hands away, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor as I swing my legs out of the bed. My body is sore, my ribs screaming with pain, but the panic in my chest is a roaring fire that burns through the physical limits. "Tell me where he is, or I’ll walk through every single door in this clinic until I find him myself."

The nurse sighs, her shoulders dropping in a gesture of defeat. She looks at the clipboard, then back up at my face. "He just left surgery. Three hours ago."

"Surgery?" I step closer to her, my hands grabbing her blue scrubs, my face inches from hers. "What happened to him?"

"His left lung was partially collapsed," she says, her voice quiet, carrying no false comfort. "He had three crushed ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and he’d lost nearly half his blood volume before the transport team reached the dock. He survived the surgery, but... the damage was severe. He’s in a critical coma. The doctor says it’s very possible he won’t wake up."

The world begins to spin, the yellow light of the room turning into a thick, heavy blackness that tries to drag me under.

No. "Take me to him," I whisper, my voice a dry, ragged thread.

"Via, you aren't supposed to walk," Ekaterina says, her hand touching my arm.

"I don't care," I say, my jaw set as I grab the metal pole of my IV stand and wheel it toward the door. "I’m going."

The hallway of the private clinic is silent, a long, sterile tunnel of white walls and closed doors. The only sound is my IV wheels against the linoleum as I drag my sore body down the corridor, Ekaterina holding my arm, the nurse walking silently behind us. Two of Ilya’s enforcers are standing outside the door at the far end of the wing, their faces tight, their eyes dropping to the floor as we approach.

They don't try to stop me. One of them reaches out, his large, scarred hand pushing the heavy door open for me.

I step into the critical care room, and the breath leaves my lungs in a violent, freezing rush.

The room is dark, the only light the blue, flickering glow of four different digital monitors. Ilya is lying in the center of the massive bed, his giant frame looking strangely small under the white sheets and the tangled web of clear plastic tubes. A massive ventilator is humming near his head, a thick black tube running down his throat, forcing his chest to rise and fall in a slow, mechanical cadence.

His dislocated left shoulder is wrapped in thick, heavy bandages, his chest taped tightly under a network of white gauze and drainage tubes that are drawing dark, sluggish red into a canister on the floor. His face is pale, almost grey in the blue light, his dark hair messy and sticking to his damp forehead.

He looks... lifeless.

The cold, unyielding Pakhan who took a bullet graze and didn't even blink, is gone. In his place is a broken, silent man who is running on nothing but the electricity of the machines.

I let go of the IV stand, my knees bucking as I stumble to the side of his bed. I drop to my knees on the linoleum, my hands reaching out to grab his right hand.

It is ice-cold.

His thick, callused fingers are completely limp, resting loose in my palm, carrying none of the firm, possessive strength I’ve come to expect from him. I hold his hand against my cheek, my tears wetting his skin, my body shaking with a violent, uncontrollable sobbing that echoes off the quiet glass of the monitors.

"Ilya..." My voice is a ragged, wet thread, my face buried in his palm. "You can't do this. You can't leave me here."

He doesn't move. The ventilator continues to hum, its mechanical rhythm the only answer in the quiet room.

"I’m pregnant," I sob, my fingers locking around his cold wrist, my eyes staring up at his pale, still face. "I’m carrying your child, Ilya. We’re going to have a baby. You spent weeks locking me in rooms, doubling the guards, and telling me you were going to protect me, and now you’re going to sleep? It’s not fair."

I reach up with my free hand, my fingers gently brushing a dark strand of hair away from his eye, my touch lighter than it has ever been.

"I love you, you grumpy monster," I whisper, the confession dropping into the quiet room like a heavy iron weight. "I was so angry at you. I ran to the mall because I was terrified of how much I wanted to stay in your house. I was terrified of what you made me feel. But I’m done running. I’m your wife, Ilya. I’m Viallentinka Kovalevskiia. And I need you to wake up."

His chest rises and falls, but his fingers don't twitch. He stays perfectly still, a silent, grey statue in the middle of the dark room.

Ekaterina stands behind me, her hand resting flat on my shoulder, her silent tears dripping onto the sleeve of my hospital gown.

I lean my forehead against his hand, my eyes closing as I listen to the steady, rhythmic beep of his heart monitor. It’s still beating. It’s a slow, stubborn rhythm that refuses to stop, a dull reminder that the fire inside him hasn't completely gone out.

He’s fighting. He survived the bombing of his house, he survived the shipyard, and he’s going to survive this.

I stay there on my knees, holding his hand against my heart, refusing to let go of the only heat left in this ruined city.