Page 9 of Bratva Beast

The doctor cringes. “If he rubs his wound, he’ll cause more damage.”

“I won’t. I understand.” Life is all about discipline.

My father unhooks the metal clasp, and I take a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to scrape at my face and neck. The doctor moves forward and tugs at the bandage. The movementreminds me of when I had stitches removed, feeling like my skin was going to rip. I take a deep breath and watch the facial expressions cross the doctor’s face. Satisfaction. He nods, pivoting to see from all angles. “This looks great. It’s going to get better, but right now the skin looks red and inflamed. You’ll have to be patient and keep it covered. You’ll need to sunscreen it to protect the new skin.”

“New skin?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

“We used a skin graft to repair the damage, and it doesn’t quite match your facial skin. It will take time for it to better match the surrounding skin.”

Thoughts swirl in my brain. I imagine I look like the burn victims you see in horror movies. Can skin from somewhere else look like the flesh on my face?

My father speaks. “How long does he need to stay?”

The doctor peruses his handiwork. “Assuming all goes well, a few more days. You’ll need to have a doctor in New York take over his care.”

“That won’t be a problem. But I’m taking him back tomorrow.”

The doctor’s face pinches into a deep frown. “I can’t guarantee the outcome if you take him from medical supervision.”

My father grimaces. “I’ll hire a doctor to travel with us.”

The doctor nods as a younger man in a short white coat walks in. “Dr. Kline. Good morning. I’d like you to see how the graft looks on day seven.”

I turn to my father. Gasping “I’ve been here for seven days?”

He shrugs. “Nine. You burned your face, neck, and upper back. You were difficult to control, so we decided to keep you unconscious and give your body a chance to heal.”

I guess my beastly ways have finally caught up with me. My face now matches my soul. I wait for the self-pity to surface,but it remains absent, and I focus on my father and the doctor, discussing my injuries. “I’m ready to go.”

My statement halts the surrounding conversations.

The young doctor cocks his head with the hint of a smirk. “You’re going to be in a lot of pain. Staying here for a while longer is in your best interest.”

I wave him off and direct my attention to the specialist. “I want to go back to New York.”

My father speaks to me in Russian, telling me to be patient, and he’ll hire some doctor to accompany us back to New York.

I itch to get out of the bed. Nothing worse than keeping an animal confined. I crack my knuckles, startling the specialist. He glances up at the IV stand and frowns. He turns his focus to me. “What number would you give your pain level, on a scale from one to ten?”

I shrug. “A three, maybe.”

He purses his lips and takes the tablet from the other doctor’s hand. “You haven’t been given more pain meds.”

I stare at the man willing him to make a point. I’m tired of being in this bed, and I just woke up. God help me, I’ve been in here for a while. “What’s your point?”

“I would have expected you would have asked for more pain relief. The morphine drip is nearly full, and the button is next to where your hands were tied. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. You could have pushed the button.”

I sigh. “The pain is more annoying than anything. I’d like to scratch it, but it’s not allowed.”

The specialist shares a look with the other doctor and turns his attention to my father. “I think he could go home tomorrow if you have a doctor or nurse to travel with him.”

The following morning, Dr. Kline acknowledges my father as they help me out of the SUV, next to the private jet. Why my father chose this young prick of a doctor, I’ll never understand, but it means I get to go home and sleep in my own bed. I own a penthouse on Broadway in Manhattan. I wince as I walk up the plane stairs with Dr. Kline preceding us, and one of my father’s soldiers supporting me from behind.

My father growls into his cell phone. His ten days away from New York have led to issues, and he’s currently swearing in Russian at my younger brother. I watch Dr. Kline to see if he has any interest in what my father is saying, and he appears oblivious. I guess he doesn’t speak Russian. My four brothers and I were all given Old English names in honor of our English mother. When we were young, we always hated it because it gave the other Russian kids another reason to pick fights with us. The Russian kids all had Russian first names, so we stood out. My father compared his naming choice to the Johnny Cash song and reminded us it would make us stronger. I hate to admit it, but he was right. By the time I was thirteen, I was lethal in a fight.

He ends the call with my brother and sighs. “Someone messed with your car before your race.”

“I figured as much. Do we know who did it?”

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