Page 87 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"Pakhan," he says, his hand flying to the digital monitor to check the readouts. "You're awake. Don't try to sit up. Your ribs⁠—"

"How long?" I rasp, my voice a dry, grating rattle.

"Two weeks," Yuri says, his fingers gently checking the IV lines on my arm. "You’ve been in a medically induced coma since the surgery. Your left lung was almost entirely filled with blood, and the infection from the river water nearly took you. We had to pump you full of broad-spectrum antibiotics for ten days just to keep your heart from stopping."

I look at the window, the grey light of the afternoon cutting through the glass. "The docks."

"Cleared," Yuri says, his voice quiet, steady. "Lev and the remaining captains took the shipyard three hours after you went into the water. The Russos retreated to the southern border. They don't have the stomach for a war without Mikhail. The northern shipping lanes are stable."

I take a slow, shallow breath, my chest tensing against the pain. "Ekaterina. Via."

Yuri lets out a short, quiet laugh, his shoulders dropping in a gesture of relief. "They’re safe, Ilya. They’re in the private wing down the hall. Ekaterina has some bruises on her wrists, but she’s already back to drawing."

"And my wife?"

"She wouldn't leave your side," Yuri says, his eyes drifting to the leather armchair near the corner of the room. "For two weeks, she sat right there. She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't sleep, and she refused to let the nurses clean your bandages unless she was holding your hand. In the end, we had to use Ekaterina to blackmail her. We had to get Ekaterina to cry in the hallway just to get her to go to the cafeteria for some soup."

A faint, warm satisfaction flares in my chest, a small crack in the cold ice of my heart. Of course she did. She’s a stubborn, sassy pain in my neck, and even when I’m half-dead, she refuses to follow the rules.

"Get me up," I grunt, my good right hand grabbing the metal railing of the bed.

"Ilya, you can't," Yuri says, his hands coming up to hold my shoulders. "Your stitches⁠—"

"I don't care about the stitches," I growl, trying to swing my legs over the edge of the mattress.

But the moment my hips shift, my body completely fails me. The weakness is an absolute, heavy weight that makes my muscles dissolve into water, my head spinning so violently, the white walls of the room turn into a blur of grey light. I gasp, my back hitting the mattress, my chest heaving as the dark spots return to crowd my vision.

"I told you," Yuri says, his voice quiet as he adjusts my pillow. "You’ve lost too much strength. Let the antibiotics do their work. Sleep, Pakhan."

I want to argue. I want to tell him that the Pakhan doesn't stay in a bed while his empire is in ruins, but my eyes are already too heavy. The darkness rushes back up from the bottom of the bed, swallowing the white ceiling and the sound of the monitor, dragging me back down into the quiet grey mist.

The next time I blink my eyes open, the room is different.

The bright, artificial light of the ceiling is turned off, the only illumination the soft, amber glow of the small lamp on the bedside table. The window is dark, a steady, quiet rain hitting the glass in a soft, rhythmic patter that sounds like a lullaby. My body still aches, but the sharp, blinding edge of the pain has faded into a dull, heavy throb that I can manage. I feel stronger. My breathing is deeper, the air entering my left lung without the wet, whistling rattle from before.

I hear a soft, trembling sniffle from the side of the bed.

I turn my head slowly, my neck stiff, my eyes tracking the sound through the shadows.

Via is sitting on the edge of my mattress, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her hands. She’s wearing a thick, oversized black sweater, mine, the sleeves falling over her knuckles. Her hair is a loose, messy, tangled wave that spills over her shoulders, catching the amber light of the lamp.

She’s crying. Small, quiet, and completely desperate sobs are escaping her throat, her shoulders shaking under the heavy knit of the wool.

She doesn't know I’m awake. She reaches out, her small, soft hand sliding into my right palm, her fingers locking with mine with a tight, desperate strength. She holds my cold hand against her cheek, her tears wetting my skin.

"You're a brute, Ilya," she whispers, her voice a ragged, wet thread in the quiet room. "You're a paranoid, stubborn brute who thinks he can just sleep through the most important weeks of our lives. I’ve been sitting here for fourteen days listening to this stupid monitor, and you haven't even growled at me once."

I stay perfectly still, my chest expanding in a slow, silent breath as I listen to her voice.

"My father is dead," she says, her voice breaking, her forehead resting against my knuckles. "They buried him yesterday in the southern cemetery. Lev took me. It was quiet, Ilya. No guns. No Russos. Just the rain. I wanted you there. I needed you to hold my hand because... because I didn't know how to say goodbye to him."

She lets out a long, shuddering sigh, her grip on my hand tightening until her fingers turn white.

"I need you to wake up, you grumpy monster," she sobs, her face burying deeper into my palm. "I’m done running. I’m not going back to my father’s house, I-I’m staying right here, with you. I love you, Ilya. I’ve been so terrified of how much I love you, but I’m done being afraid."

She pulls back slightly, her hazel eyes wide, wet, and glassy in the amber light as she stares at my still face. She wipes her nose with the sleeve of the black sweater, her chin lifting with that familiar, stubborn pride.

"And if you don't wake up in the next five seconds, Ilya Kovalevskii, I swear to God I am going to name our child after a fruit."