Page 41 of Toxic Salvation
His smirk only widens. “Late night booty call at the hospital? You’re a wild man, Kovan Krayev.”
“I’m not here to see Vesper. I’m here to deal with another snake.”
“Riiight.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Is that why you picked a time when Vesper would be on duty?”
“Merely a coincidence.”
“Oh, to be young again. What’s it like to fuck in an on-call room? I’ve fucked on a plane, in a park, and in the science museum, but never in a hospital.” He stares at the building with longing, like it’s the one that got away.
“Go home, Osip.” I turn toward the entrance. “And keep your nose out of my business.”
“Every man should have goals, that’s all I’m saying!” he shouts after me. “Ambitions! Aspirations! You’re living out my dreams, Kovan!”
I shake my head, chuckling, and stride through the automatic doors. The cleaning solution stings my nostrils immediately. I navigate the maze of corridors toward Jeremy’s office.
I have his entire schedule uploaded to my phone. He just finished surgery twenty minutes ago and should be reviewing post-op reports right about now. He has no idea I’m coming, which is exactly how I prefer it.
With every corner I turn, part of me hopes for a glimpse of Vesper. I don’t like the idea of her being on her feet for twelve-hour shifts while she’s pregnant, walking endless rounds, standing hunched over operating tables.
But I also don’t want to be accused of being possessive. She already thinks I’ve mastered that particular skill.
She isn’t wrong.
By the time I reach Jeremy’s office, though, I haven’t seen her. The frustration settles in my gut as I approach his secretary’s desk.
Empty. Perfect.
I don’t bother knocking.
Jeremy is bent over a stack of medical reports, but he jerks upright the moment I enter. His pen clatters to the floor.
He goes pale, his lips disappearing into a thin line as he scrambles to his feet. “M-Mr. Krayev! I wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s the point,mudak.”I circle around his desk slowly, deliberately. He backs against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. I grab him by the shirt and shove him hard against his own desk.
“Wh-wh-wh?—”
“How was your surgery?” I ask.
He’s still wearing dark blue scrubs. Blood stains the fabric near his collar. “I-I-I?—”
“Christ, man. Stop embarrassing yourself and spit it the fuck out.”
He looks ready to piss himself. Since I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire, I release him. But when he tries to step away from the desk, I block his path.
“Stay where you are.”
He freezes, cheeks flushing red. “Wh-what have I done?”
“Absolutely nothing useful. So now, you’re going to answer my questions.” I plant my hands on either side of him, trapping him against the desk. “When was the last time you spoke to Ihor Makhova?”
“I don’t recall.”
Sighing, I grab his right hand and twist his fingers backward until he starts to whimper. “If I apply more pressure right here,” I explain, “I will break your hand. It’ll be hard performing surgeries then, wouldn’t you say?”
“P-please… not my hand! What do you want to know?”
“Ihor. When did you last speak to him?”
