Page 96 of The Russian Retribution

“Lift your arm for me? Excellent. And the other? Good. Any weakness here? No? Excellent. Can you tell me, if Amalie has a white cat and a ginger cat, how many cats does she have in total?”

It’s difficult to keep a straight face as the doctor runs through countless tests to examine my cognitive capabilities and physical functions after being in a coma for over a month, and that last question makes me chuckle.

“Two. She has two cats.”

“Excellent.” The doctor smiles at me and scribbles something on her pad. “Did the nurse explain to you the extent of your injuries when you arrived here?”

“Yes. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, internal contusions, bruised kidney, cranial trauma resulting in a small brain bleed, and, uh, this.” I pat the bandage covering my bare chest where the nearly-healed gunshot wound rests underneath.

“Exactly. Minimal, given how you ended up here. You are one very lucky man, Erik Izmaylov.”

“Thank you. I practice good Karma.”

My doctor chuckles and closes her pad. “I’d like to keep you here for another day or two just for observation, but other than that, I don’t see any reason you can’t go home at the end of the week.”

The end of the week.

That’s too long.

I need to get home now.

It was surreal to wake up here and learn that I’d been in a coma for six weeks when tackling Viktor off that roof felt like it happened only moments ago. Even now, I still feel the fabric of his shirt in my clenched fists, the wind in my hair, and the sickening flip of my stomach as we fell off the roof.

How can that be six weeks ago?

What the fuck have I missed since then?

The doctor takes her leave, and I scramble out of bed. Just as I reach the drawers holding my clothes, the door opens and footsteps stumble inside.

Looking up, my heart lifts as my mind goes to only one person. Anastasia.

Face to face with Faina, it’s difficult to hide my disappointment.

“So it’s true,” she gasps, her cheeks flushed from rushing here. “When I got the call, I almost didn’t want to believe it.”

“Surprise.” I force a smile, then resume rummaging in the drawers for clothes. There are some fresh, clean clothes in here that I recognize. Did Anastasia bring them? Or Faina?

“We thought you were dead. I was kind of looking forward to pulling the plug?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“After what you did to Anastasia, maybe I should have.”

Tension jolts across my shoulders and our eyes meet. “I don’t regret how that started,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “But it didn’t make my feelings or my loyalty to her any less real. Do you think I would have done what I did if I weren’t completely head over heels for her?”

“You threw yourself off a roof,” Faina replies sharply. “How does that protect her?”

“Viktor shot me,” I snap. “When I woke up, I thought I was dead for good and God was giving me one last chance to save Anastasia, so I took it. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?”

Faina’s eyes narrow slightly. “And yet you’re back in the land of the living.”

“Luck was clearly looking out for me.”

“Six weeks too late.”

“Are you just here to twist the knife deeper?” I snap, shrugging on a T-shirt. Tension pulls across my chest, radiating a low ache from my gunshot wound. “Or will you tell me what the hell is going on? Where’s Anastasia? Is she okay? Is the baby?”

The irritation on Faina’s face fades and her shoulders slump down. “Anastasia is fine. Physically. So is the baby. Viktor’s knife missed by half a centimeter, and the tip did nick the sac, but the wound was so small that it closed up.”

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