Page 197 of Marrying the Savage

“That’s not what I asked.”

I pull the collar of my blouse a little higher. “Are we going to the doctor or not?”

His eyes narrow. For a second, I think he will push. Then his gaze moves over my face, and something in him adjusts. He chooses not to.

That’s becoming harder to fight than his orders.

“Yes,” he says. “We are going.”

The clinic is on the lower level of the house, though calling it a clinic makes it sound smaller than it is. There’s a proper examination room, locked medicine cabinets, clean steel instruments, a narrow bed, and the cold smell of disinfectant. Damir’s world has a private version of everything normal people use publicly: doctors, cars, guards, rules, punishment.

The doctor is a woman this time. She’s in her forties, with dark hair pulled back and a calm face that doesn’t change when Damir enters behind me like an approaching threat.

“Mrs. Volodina,” she says. “I’m Dr. Morozova.”

I almost correct her. Not because it’s wrong, but because I am still not used to it.

“Sofia is fine,” I say.

Damir looks at the doctor. “Check her throat.”

Dr. Morozova looks at me, not him. “May I?”

That alone makes me like her more.

“Yes.”

Damir stays near the wall while she asks basic questions. Dizziness. Difficulty swallowing. Pain when breathing. Loss of consciousness. Nausea. Headache. I answer as plainly as I can. Damir listens to every word.

Then his phone vibrates. He ignores it.

It vibrates again. He looks down, and his face changes.

I see the moment duty gets its hand around his throat.

He looks at me. “I need five minutes.”

I nod too quickly. “Okay.”

He looks at the doctor. “No one else comes in.”

“Understood,” she says.

He leaves. The door closes behind him.

I breathe easier. I hate that too.

Dr. Morozova waits until his footsteps are gone before she turns back to me. Her voice lowers, still professional. “I need you to unbutton the collar.”

I do. Cool air touches my skin.

She examines my neck with careful fingers, not pressing too hard, asking before each movement. When her thumb pauses near the side of my throat, her expression changes. It’s small, controlled, but I see it.

“This was from pressure?” she asks.

“Yes.”

I think of the man from the club before I can stop myself.